Neither Rested Nor Revived
by r4ven3
Summary: Set after the closing of the movie, "Spooks: The Greater Good", how will Harry deal with life on the run, especially since Ruth has died and his reputation is in tatters? A Harry-centric tale.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: This story is set post "Spooks: The Greater Good", and although I have not seen the movie, I have discovered some of the outcomes. Thus, there may be minor spoilers for the movie.**_

* * *

 _Early June 2014 :_

Malcolm Wynn-Jones stood on the high deck of the small private jetty watching the just-beyond-middle-aged man as he wearily stepped from the small motor launch. It had only been just over a week since they'd last seen one another, but Harry Pearce looked neither rested nor revived. Malcolm took the few steps down to the small jetty beside which the boat was moored, intending to help Harry with the items he was attempting to carry in one hand.

Harry had seen Malcolm before he'd turned off the launch's motor. The man's presence could only herald bad news back in London, and he had no stomach for more bad news. The very least they could have done was send young Will Holloway. The two of them could have had a few drinks at the pub and then rolled home to his rented cottage for a few more. Bloody Malcolm would no doubt prefer a pot of tea, and he was fresh out of Earl Grey.

"Do you need help with that?" Malcolm asked, grabbing the fishing tackle box from Harry's grasp. He was surprised when Harry didn't object.

They walked side by side up the hill in silence to the small cottage Harry had rented for the next three months, after which – who knows? - he may have a change of heart. Harry had looked Warrender in the eye – no mean task, given the younger man had been standing close to him, his presence powerful and perhaps a touch menacing. It was clear to Harry that they were pushing him out the door slowly, so he had decided to take extended leave from which he would most likely not return. Not yet. He'd actually found some parts of the last few months enjoyable ... being on the run, suspected dead, avoiding detection. There was incredible freedom in being dead – a non person. There was also incredible freedom to be had from simply disappearing from London to this bolt-hole, a place where no-one would think to look for him.

The last hundred yards of the path from the marina to the cottage were steep, with steps cut into the rock face. Malcolm slowed his pace to give Harry time to climb the steps. His gait slowed and his shoulders sloped with fatigue as Malcolm stuffed his free hand into his pocket to prevent himself offering Harry a helping hand. Harry told Malcolm to leave the bait box outside, and then he unlocked the front door to his cottage and invited him inside. Their brief exchange outside the front door was the longest verbal exchange they'd shared since Malcolm had joined Harry at the boat's mooring.

"You may as well sit down," Harry said as they reached the cramped kitchen at the back of the house. "I have tea and coffee."

"Nothing stronger?"

"I gave it up."

"Oh? When?"

"This morning. I had such a headache that I swore off whisky for the rest of my time here."

"Which will be?"

"If I have my way, forever. I can't do it any more, Malcolm. And if I can't do my job without the anaesthetising effects of alcohol, then perhaps I shouldn't be there in the first place" Harry said, adding tea leaves to the teapot.

"It's been a difficult few months."

Trust Malcolm to state the bleeding obvious.

A few minutes later they were sitting across the small kitchen table from one another, sipping their tea. Malcolm smiled to himself. There had been occasions when the two of them had shared a good single malt, but here they were each sipping their tea. How very English. It was Harry who broke the silence.

"You know," he began, "I rather liked being dead. It was freeing – no expectations, no rules, no-one to remind me of all the many ways in which I was failing. I rather liked the feeling ….. so here I am ….. dead to those in the service. You?"

To Malcolm that appeared to be the perfect opening. "I'm here for a reason, Harry," he began. "I have something to tell you which can only be said face to face."

"I can't see you being the one sent to tell me I'm needed back in London."

"No. It's nothing like that. It's much more …... personal."

* * *

Twenty minutes later:

In the time it took for Harry to come back inside, Malcolm had poured himself a second cup of tea. The older man had stood up so suddenly that his chair had tipped backwards, leaving it to clatter on the slate tiles as he struggled to open the back door, gasping for fresh air. Malcolm watched through the window above the sink as Harry stood at the edge of the terrace, hands on hips, head back, his shoulders heaving with each breath he took. It took several minutes for Harry to calm, and then he stood still, his face turned upwards, and several minutes later he suddenly turned and headed back inside. He lifted his chair to its upright position, sat on it, and then folded his hands on the table in front of him before looking Malcolm in the eye. It was as though he had never left the room.

"So ….." Harry began, "I'm assuming you have evidence to support your claims."

Malcolm had always felt a deep and enduring responsibility for the difficulties Harry and Ruth had had in their time working together before she had left London after the Cotterdam incident. From his perspective they'd been a couple, and what that had meant in real terms he couldn't even guess. They'd been a couple while on the Grid, and had it not been for his clumsy words to Ruth back in 2006, he was sure they would have become a couple while away from work. Harry's tragic and emotional response to Ruth's death had only served to consolidate Malcolm's guilt. He had sat next to Harry at Ruth's funeral service, and on top of his own rather deep grief he had also felt a level of responsibility for Harry's pain. In Malcolm's estimation Harry had not moved on. His `suicide', followed by his one-man crusade to find Adem Qasim, accompanied by the lad, Holloway, was testament to his suspicions. He believed Harry to be fast headed for a breakdown.

"I have what you need here," Malcolm replied, pulling open his tweed jacket to retrieve a bulky manila envelope from the inside pocket. He slid it across the table towards Harry, who looked at it like it was timed to explode within seconds. "You might prefer it were I to leave the room while you …... peruse the contents."

"No ….. I'd like you to stay while I …..." Harry looked up at Malcolm sheepishly while his hands fiddled nervously with the envelope in front of him. "I might have questions."

Malcolm recognised a plea from a desperate man when he heard one. He stayed seated – silent and still – while Harry upended the envelope, spilling the contents onto the table in front of him. He sifted through a number of photographs, not lingering on any of them until he reached a hand-written letter, which he unfolded and placed flat on the table. With his palms he ironed out the creases in the paper; over and over he moved his hands over the paper on which Malcolm could see written the bold scrawl of Ruth's handwriting. Harry reached into the top pocket of his shirt, drew out his reading glasses, and began reading. It was as he was reading the third and last page that Malcolm noticed tears rolling slowly down Harry's cheeks.

"Harry -," he began, to which Harry responded by holding up his free hand in a `stop' gesture, so Malcolm remained where he was, silently observing his former boss letting slip his ever-present guard.

When Harry reached the end of the letter he paused for a moment to wipe his fingers across his cheeks, and then retrieved the first page, beginning to read it from the beginning. When he finished his second read through he put aside the three pages of the letter and picked up the photographs. Malcolm had taken the photographs himself and had chosen the best dozen for inclusion in the envelope. He had to hand it to Harry. For a man who was witnessing evidence that the love of his life had not died almost three years earlier, Harry was remarkably calm.

"You'll want to be visiting her," Malcolm suggested quietly.

"I guess so."

 _He guesses so_! Calm to the point of catatonic. "You'll be wanting her contact details."

"They're in her letter."

"Right. Perhaps I should go now." Malcolm had a sense that Harry was teetering on an emotional knife edge.

"As you wish."

"And should you need anything ….. anything at all ….. you'll contact me."

Malcolm noted a slight lifting of Harry's eyebrows before he spoke, his voice giving nothing away. "Of course."

* * *

Harry waited until Malcolm reached his car and drove away before he returned to the kitchen table and sat down, having first made himself a fresh mug of tea. He knew he should have asked Malcolm to stay a while longer, but he simply couldn't, and he could only hope that Malcolm had understood why. He had no energy for social niceties, not when his whole world was being turned upside down and inside out.

He took the photographs – all twelve of them – and arranged them on the table in front of him. Three rows of four – orderly and neat, just the way Harry liked things to be. Then he sat back, mug of tea in one hand, while he gazed at each image in turn. All were images of Ruth, all were taken only two days earlier, and in nearly all the photographs she was smiling shyly at the camera, her grey-blue eyes striking in their direct gaze into the lens. He put down his tea, and began picking up each photograph in turn, closely examining each one before placing it back on the table – in its place in the grid of twelve – and then picking up the next one.

Then he did what he'd been itching to do since he had first glanced at each photograph, but felt unable to due to Malcolm's presence. With his free hand, Harry swept all twelve images of Ruth and the three pages of her letter to him onto the slate floor of the kitchen. Then he stood, tipped the remainder of his tea into the sink, and then poured himself a generous measure of Scotch. The occasion called for the familiar oblivion which only whisky could deliver.

* * *

Next morning Harry awoke with a dry mouth and a thumping headache. He looked down to see he'd slept on top of the duvet, still fully dressed. After he'd showered, shaved and changed into fresh clothes he headed downstairs. There he found his bottle of Scotch slightly less than half full, his glass with a fingerful of amber liquid in the bottom, and the pages of Ruth's letter and her photographs strewn haphazardly across the kitchen floor. First he gathered the photographs and the pages of the letter, and placed them in a tidy pile on the table. Then he disposed of the bottle and glass, and made himself a cup of strong coffee and two slices of buttered toast. Other than sustenance of the liquid variety he had skipped dinner, and so was rather hungry.

He sat at he table munching his toast and sipping the coffee while he again read Ruth's letter. This time his response to it was gentler, but he was still angry with her, and despite her inviting him to visit her in Oxford, he couldn't. Not now. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. He still loved her, had never stopped loving her, despite believing that she had left him forever, but he could not help feeling a deep level of rage towards her …. a rage so deep that it would not be safe for him to be around her.

So Harry did what he always did when confronted by his most powerful emotions. He escaped, and this time he had the whole ocean at his disposal.


	2. Chapter 2

By the third day after Malcolm had visited him in his rental cottage Harry was at last ready to see Ruth. He packed a bag with his essentials and some changes of clothes just in case. He'd leave it in the car. To turn up at Ruth's front door expecting to spend the night was pushing his luck, and would likely result in her sending him packing. He was an hour from Oxford when he remembered that he'd not warned Ruth of his pending arrival. Only in late morning had he made his decision. He'd showered, shaved, changed, packed his bag and headed to his car. How could he have overlooked the small, but necessary detail of warning Ruth of his arrival? When he came to the next layby he pulled his car in and turned off the motor. There, he sent Ruth a text: _I'm on my way to Oxford to visit you. ETA 4 pm. Hope that's OK. Harry._ It was hardly the tone of a man who had loved her …... still loved her …... but the message was intended to be practical rather than emotional. It was unsentimental and to the point. His intention was to inform her, not to send her a (possibly misguided) message of love. At that very moment he didn't know how he felt about her. Her silence during the previous thirty-two months had left him holding in a core of anger and irritation which would not disappear overnight.

He'd needed the two days spent anchored a mile or so offshore, a fishing line draped over the side of the boat. The fishing line was mainly for show. He'd sat watching the distant shore wishing he could remain forever on the water ….. out to sea, both in reality as well as the metaphorical state he'd been in since he'd believed Ruth had died. Of course he was pleased – thrilled even – that Ruth had survived the stabbing and was alive. Why wouldn't he be? But darkening his joy at the news of her survival was a hard kernel of rage – at her – because she'd not thought to spare him the intense and protracted grief which had been his daily companion for the past thirty-two months. He had thrown himself into his job, sometimes literally, hoping to exorcise the memory of her tragic loss. He had drunk far more than was good for him, searching for a place where he felt nothing at all. Nothing he did worked for very long. Each morning when he woke, Ruth was still dead. No matter how he looked at it, he knew he could never have done that to her. Her letter to him had alluded to a secret she had had to keep, with an accompanying need to cut off her ties with everyone she knew in England. Had the situation been reversed, with him the one laying low and in hiding, he would have moved mountains to contact her, and to hell with any consequences.

He re-read the message before he pressed Send. He only had to wait a few minutes – perhaps five - for her reply. It was as succinct as his own message to her. _I look forward to seeing you when you arrive. Ruth_. Harry sighed heavily and started the car, carefully pulling out of the layby and back onto the motorway. He turned up the volume of the Mozart overture, smiling as the music filled the space inside his car. He didn't want to think ….. about anything at all.

* * *

Harry's first sighting of Ruth in almost three years was uneventful and unremarkable. They could have been two old friends meeting after an absence of no more than a few days. Ruth opened the door to her second floor apartment, said `Come in,' as though she had seen him only yesterday, stepped back from her door, allowing him room to enter her apartment. Harry, on the other hand, feeling unwanted emotion surging from deep within him, needed to at least touch her, perhaps to ensure she was real, and not some cruel spectre concocted by his imagination. He stepped through her doorway into a small entrance hall, and turned to look at her more closely. She was dressed in a dark blue skirt and light blue shirt, over which she wore a dark blue cardigan. Her hair reached her shoulders and was wavy at the ends. Apart from a few lines under her eyes, she hadn't aged a day in the almost three years since she was stabbed.

"Hello, Harry," she said, and he felt his heart contract. No-one else spoke his name quite like she did. "I'm glad you could come. I was worried …..."

"About what?"

"That you'd be angry with me, and …... not want to see me. I wouldn't have blamed you had you felt that way."

Suddenly the anger he'd been nurturing and feeding ever since Malcolm's visit subsided, and he felt himself smiling into her eyes. "I'd really like to …..."

"What?"

How did they do that? Here they were, two normally articulate people who could barely finish a sentence when in each other's presence. It had never made sense to him, and it made even less sense at that moment, when he had so much he wanted to say to her.

So ….. if they couldn't speak to one another in full sentences, then perhaps another approach was needed. Harry took a small step towards Ruth, watching her carefully for signs of discomfort. Seeing none he reached out with one hand and very gently took her hand in his. With that minimal contact with her he felt his anxiety recede, replaced by a rare calm. "I was about to ask you if I could touch you," he said quietly, his eyes still holding hers.

Ruth dropped her eyes and then just as quickly looked up. She was smiling, and he felt her fingers squeeze his. "I would have been disappointed had you simply walked in here and treated me like your sister," she said, gazing up at him.

Harry felt his shoulders sag with relief, and he leaned towards her and kissed her cheek. He was about to pull away when he felt her hand slide around his neck and draw him back to her. One look into her eyes told him that it was absolutely fine for him to kiss her properly. Almost three years of loss and longing and wanting things to be different went into that kiss. It was not a passionate kiss – it was too soon for that. It was a gentle and careful and respectful kiss. It was soft lips on soft lips. The kiss lasted no more that two or three seconds, but it said so much more than they could have managed had they spoken their greetings. Harry lifted his head from hers, and leaned against the wall. His movement away from her meant that he'd had to drop her hand.

He recognised his exhaustion. Grieving her loss had exhausted him. It had been equally as exhausting to adjust to the reality of her not having died, but having been in hiding for the intervening years and months. Harry was tired ….. through to his very bones his body ached. He wanted to sleep for a week. He wanted to take Ruth to bed and hold her close. As much as he wanted to he knew there was a conversation they had to have before anything further could happen between them. More than anything, he wanted to know why Ruth had had to go into hiding, and why – suddenly – she had stepped into the light.

* * *

They sat across from one another at Ruth's kitchen table, mugs of coffee on the table in front of them. Across the wide living area a set of French doors opened onto a private balcony. The view from the balcony was of treetops and the roofs of houses across the street, but it was sufficiently sylvan to soothe Harry's fears. He knew he had to be the one to take the conversation into difficult territory. For them to be able to move on he had to take them back into the past.

"So …." he began, "where have you been all this time?"

"I …. I haven't yet had clearance to share all the details of my time away, Harry. I can tell you're hurt."

"I'm more than hurt, Ruth. I almost didn't come to see you."

"Why?"

"I was ….. and still am ….. angry."

"With me?"

"In part." Harry sighed and took a sip of his coffee, but it was still too hot to drink. "I'm angry about the state I've lived in for almost three years." This time he sighed heavily, giving himself thinking time …. calming down time. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers – a gesture of old which warned Ruth how stressed he was. "I'm angry because we've lost time together, and I don't know if we can ever …..." He took another sip of his coffee, and this time it was not so hot as to burn his tongue. "Jesus, Ruth, I attended your funeral, and then afterwards I went home and cried like a baby. I regularly visit your grave, and despite working every day that I could since then, I'm still not …... whole, and then here you are …. alive and breathing. Can you see what I'm saying?"

All the time he'd been talking, searching for the right words, Ruth had watched him closely. She nodded. "I can, and I'm sorry."

"Sorry? Is that all you can say?" Harry stopped, recognising that he was right on the cusp of losing control.

He watched Ruth as she hesitated. Would she express her own anger at the situation she'd had to accept, or would she give Harry time to calm down? She chose the latter. "I have some biscuits somewhere," she said, moving as if to stand.

"Sod the biscuits. I need answers, Ruth. Perhaps it's best I don't know where you were and why, but I'd like to know why it is you didn't at least try to get a message to me saying you were alive and well."

Ruth sat back in her chair, placing both palms on the table, one each side of her mug of coffee. "Because my death had to appear authentic, even to you …... especially to you. Harry, I am so, so sorry for what you've lived through, but I was instructed to not contact anyone at all, not even my family members …... but especially you."

Ruth had always possessed the ability to bring calm to him, and this time was no different. Harry felt his anger subside, and he sat back in his chair, watching her, drinking her in with his eyes. Along with his two children, both of whom he saw only occasionally, she was the person he loved most in the world – dead or alive. How could he have imagined that he no longer had feelings for her? It was little more than a game he'd played with himself …... a game designed to shut down his warring emotions. "Who instructed you?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"The Home Secretary visited me in hospital. It was around a week after my funeral. I'd already been told that to the rest of the world I was already dead. Foolishly, I'd already alluded to him – William – that I was planning to leave the service, and it was possible you'd join me. That ….. that was my biggest mistake. I was warning him that I was planning to give notice, and when he wanted to know why, I told him. I should have known that a politician can't be trusted with news like that. There were plans for you from within the service, Harry. They were not quite ready for you to leave. I suppose you know why."

For Harry the light bulb came on slowly rather than in a blinding flash of light. "That business with the Russian mafia," he said quietly. "Ilya and Sasha Gavrik leaving London was just the beginning. They needed my expertise …... history with the Russians. It went on for months. And then there was the London Olympics. But why me? They could just as easily have used Dimitri."

"I don't pretend to understand the way those in the upper echelons of power think, Harry. All I know is that ….. they wanted you to stay where you were, and they needed you unencumbered by a …...family …. a partner. They wanted to bleed you dry, and then ... I imagine ... throw you away."

Harry sat for a while, stunned by the news that both he and Ruth had been manipulated by the very people they had trusted to make the correct decisions. Suddenly he rose from his chair and headed to the French doors. He unlocked them with the key which was in the lock, and then closed the doors behind him. Not once did he look at her. Ruth watched while he moved to the corner of the balcony, just beyond her line of vision. It was clear that Harry needed privacy, so she gathered their half drunk coffee and tipped it down the sink, and then rinsed the mugs under a stream of hot water. Then she checked the bedroom where she supposed Harry would need to sleep that night. Her flat had two bedrooms. One had a single bed, and that was the bedroom she had chosen for herself. The bed in the other room was a double, and so she opened the cupboard door and took out fresh bedding and made the bed. Harry was in no state to be driving home. She didn't want him to go home.

By the time she returned to the kitchen fifteen minutes had passed and Harry was still outside. Ruth knew she was taking a risk, but he worried her. It was unlike Harry to express deep emotion. His gift as a spy was in being able to suppress and hide the most extreme emotions. Very quietly Ruth stepped to the glass doors so that she had a view of him. He stood in the very corner of the balcony, his hands on the stone balustrade. Even from where she stood she could see that his knuckles were white – not with cold, but from him having clutched the balustrade too tightly and for too long. Then there was his posture. His shoulders were heaving, perhaps from him taking deep breaths, one after the other.

Quietly and carefully, Ruth opened the glass doors and crept towards him. It was only when she was almost close enough to touch him that she heard his sobs – deep, wrenching sobs which brought tears to her own eyes. He had clearly suffered so much more than she could have imagined. She stepped a little closer and placed the palm of her left hand against the middle of his back. She felt him flinch slightly, but he didn't move away. She then moved so that she stood right behind his right shoulder, and with her left hand she rubbed his back in ever widening circles …... around and around, her hand moved hypnotically over the fabric of his jacket, so that eventually Harry's sobbing slowed and then stopped.

Ruth stayed where she was, her hand stilled, but still resting against the middle of his back, while Harry took a clean handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped his eyes and then blew his nose. Throughout, he did not turn to face her and he didn't speak. It was only once he had stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket that he turned slightly, so that he was caught in the arc of her arm. When he looked down at her she saw his eyes and nose were reddened. She felt a wave of love and compassion for him which needed an outlet, so she wrapped both her arms around him and pulled him against her. She was relieved when she felt his own arms encircle her, and his chin come to rest on the top of her head.

They stood that way for a very long time. They'd both been hurt. They'd both been damaged by what had happened. Eventually a breeze whipped up, swirling around them and bringing a shiver to Ruth's skin.

"We should go inside," she said, her mouth against Harry's chest.

Ruth felt the murmur of his voice through his body as he said a quiet, "Okay."


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N : Thank you so much to readers and reviewers. I am enjoying reading your varying responses to this.**_

* * *

They ate a quiet meal – an Indian takeaway which Harry drove to pick up while Ruth showered and changed into jeans and a bulky jumper. Officially it was early summer, but the night air was cold, and she had always felt the cold more than most.

"I'm just a little embarrassed," Harry said, as they sat back over a bottle of white wine which he had bought to accompany the meal.

"Why? You have nothing to be embarrassed about."

"I only ever cry when I'm alone, and so able to ….. freely let go, so ….."

"I suspect you needed to let go today, Harry. I don't think any less of you because you had a good cry. In fact, in my eyes that makes you more of a man."

Harry smiled slightly, twisting his lips in that way he had when he needed to suppress his smile. "Thank you," he said quietly. "Strangely, I do feel a lot better since I ….."

Ruth watched him as he watched her. She knew that look. He had something to say, but was not sure how to broach the subject. "Spit it out," she said.

"Spit what out?"

"What you're wondering should you say it or keep it to yourself. Our days of speaking in riddles need to be behind us, Harry."

He nodded slightly, and then he sighed slowly, his shoulders lifting and then relaxing. "I've been wondering, given what happened when you came back from Cyrpus -"

"You're wondering whether I have a husband or a lover stashed away in the spare room."

"I'm wondering whether you had ….. anyone ….. while you were …. wherever you were, and …." Harry looked down, clearly embarrassed to be asking a question so personal. "I really have no right to be asking this."

"Harry, given what occurred between us just before I was stabbed I'd say you have every right to know whether I have …... been with anyone. The answer is no, and the reason – if you need one – is that this time I knew I'd be coming home when it was all over. I knew they wouldn't keep you working forever. Even you must have your use-by date." She took a dainty sip of her wine before carefully placing her glass right in the centre of the coaster. Then she looked up at him. Clearly, what she was about to say was important. "Were I being truthful ….. which I am …... I'd say that I've been saving myself for you …. for us."

Incredibly moved by her declaration, Harry had no words. He could have made a clever quip about his age, and the possibility of him being unable to meet her needs, but he vetoed such comments. This was no time for such crassness. "I'm glad," was all he could say.

"And you?"

"Me? You're asking me whether I had anyone while you were …... supposedly dead, and I was in a state of deep grief throughout, plus attempting to work all the hours I could manage."

"I'm supposing the answer is no."

"And you'd be right. I thought of it a couple of times, but I knew I'd feel worse afterwards, like I was cheating on you." This time it was Harry who took his time over drinking his wine while he thought how to say what he needed to say. "Had I gone ahead and ….. slept with someone, it would have been a one night stand, and from past experience I know that such encounters only meet a physical need, and then only for a brief period of time. My need – while I believed you were gone from me forever – was for comfort of a different kind. I craved the personal and emotional connection we had ….. even if it was not always evident to others that we had a connection of any kind."

"I'm sure they all knew there was something between us. Calum once told me he envied us," Ruth said. "He said he was sure we went home together and had the most amazing …..."

"Sex?"

"Yes, although his words were that he was sure we `bonked like bunnies' in our spare time."

This time Harry made no attempt to suppress his smile. "If only. Did you put him right?"

"Of course not. By that time I thought it rather amusing to have others wondering did we or didn't we."

Their conversation was teetering on the edge of the very personal, and they were not used to veering this close to the one thing they had never done together and perhaps should have. Should they take that leap? Was it too soon?

"Perhaps we should make ... that ... a priority," Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Maybe we should," Ruth agreed, not sure whether he wanted any further assurance on the matter. All she knew was that her previous objections to having an intimate relationship with Harry had evaporated over time. In the end Ruth was the one to redirect the conversation elsewhere. "I already know ... some of what has happened these past few months. Malcolm told me ... about Calum."

Harry nodded, his chest tightening with pain all over again. The very last thing he wanted to be discussing with her was the last few months. More recent events were up there with her tragic `death' almost three years earlier. He'd fall asleep at night, the smell of blood in his nostrils, the warm stickiness of it on his fingers, loved faces distorted in surprise and then pain, and lastly, the dullness of resignation as their lives slowly slipped away. Sensing his distress, Ruth changed direction.

"I need to tell you a little more of what I did while I was gone."

"If you're not meant to then you shouldn't."

"But it will eat away at you, and indirectly at me also. There are certain things I can't tell you ….. at least ... for now. I'm earning my living translating documents. I have electronic contact with the Chinese embassy in London, and most of my work comes from there. They know me as Caroline Brown, a legend which was devised for me while I was recovering from being stabbed. By the time I was well enough to begin working again I was ….. outside the UK, where I stayed until January of this year."

"But …... that's five months you've been back on home soil. Why didn't you -"

"Harry, I tried. In late February I rang the Grid, giving my old call signal. I hadn't expected to get through, but Calum took the call and contacted Malcolm. He and I …... we kept in touch. He said you were …... that you'd gone dark, and so couldn't be contacted."

"That's true. I faked my own death. At least Malcolm was privy to some of the truth."

"That was fortuitous, yes. Had he told me you'd suicided, I ….. don't know what I'd have done. As it was, I got him to ring me each week, letting me know how the operation was progressing, which in real terms meant that he told me how you were and that you were still alive. Then when you went back to the Grid you …."

"Walked right out again. My behaviour was described by Warrender as `irresponsible and ill conceived'. The whole thing was a debacle from beginning to end. I can't do it any more, Ruth."

"As hard as it is for me to say this, Harry, I think you still have more to offer MI5, even if it's only for another year or two."

"You _want_ me to stay there? Has Malcolm told you about …. the involvement of the CIA?"

"He has, yes. I was ….. rather shocked, but not surprised."

"And you want me heading back into that kind of madness?"

"Of course not, but I think were you to leave now, you'd always be wondering whether you could have made a difference for perhaps another year."

"Which could very well end up being the last year of my life."

Harry reached for the wine bottle and emptied the remaining wine into both their glasses. He wasn't in the mood for discussing his future with MI5, even with Ruth. As he saw it, it was an open and shut case. "We need to make a toast," he said, lifting his glass towards Ruth.

"To what?"

"I'm thinking that we should toast something we both value." He watched her closely as she sipped from her glass. "I'd like to toast us, Ruth. To us, and …..." He couldn't finish the sentence. The possibility of a future together was on his mind, but it was still too heavily charged with their past.

"... and our future ... together," Ruth finished for him.

He smiled at her and reached across the table with his glass and touched it to hers. "To us and our future together," he repeated. "Do you think it's too soon to be thinking about that?"

"Harry ….. how long have we known one another?"

"Around ….. eleven years."

"And for how much of that eleven years have we loved one another?"

Harry was shocked by her direct question, and all he could think about was the times when she had turned him away, thwarted him, walked away from him when she should have moved closer. "Jesus, Ruth. The only time I knew for sure that you loved me was in those few short moments before you were stabbed. You spent most of our years together trying to get away from me, denying your feelings for me, declaring to my face that our working relationship was close enough for you."

Ruth got up from the table and took her empty glass to the sink. He half expected her to go to bed, leaving him sitting there on his own. She rinsed her glass and then sat herself in the chair next to his, where she turned in her chair so that she faced him. "I know, and I regret it. I was young and I had never been attracted to someone like you. You were my boss and a powerful man, and that frightened me. Things have changed. _I_ have changed."

"We've both changed, Ruth. I …... from my perspective we need to not waste too much more time by letting our fears and insecurities run our lives." He pushed his glass away, the wine unfinished, and turned to face her. "As much as I'd like to invite you to my bed tonight, I'd not be at my best. I'm exhausted. The last few days have been ….. difficult, and I've slept little. I need sleep more than I need to ….."

"There's always tomorrow night, Harry."

"You want me to stay more than one night?"

"Of course I do. It's been …... almost three years."

He had a sudden urge to touch her. He reached out with one hand and grasped her hand, and then without thinking too much about it, he reached across to kiss her. He wanted more, but the gentle and tender kiss, which she willingly returned, would have to be enough for now. He ended the kiss and leaned away from her, still grasping her hand, caressing her knuckles with his thumb.

"Is it alright if I use your bathroom?" he asked. "I need a shower, and an early night."

"Of course it's alright. Let me show you to your room, and you need to know where everything is."

By the time Harry turned out the lamp by his bedside it was not even ten o'clock – incredibly early for him – but he was asleep within minutes, his body needing the gentle oblivion of sleep. He dreamed of chasing a man, one who looked remarkably like Adem Qasim, through the grey streets of an unknown city. When Qasim turned to check where Harry was, he had Ruth's face. The dream seemed to go on for most of the night, but when he saw Ruth's face on the terrorist, her smile just for him, he awoke suddenly. Looking around him at the unfamiliar shapes, he remembered where he was, and so easily slipped back into sleep. He felt content to be sleeping in Ruth's flat, with her in the bedroom across the hallway.

When next he awoke there was a grey light peeking through a gap in the curtains, and a gentle and rhythmic breathing from behind him in the bed. He turned and looked over his shoulder at the small figure curled up underneath his duvet, her dark hair fanning out on the pillow beside his. For how long had he imagined a scene such as this? He wanted to wake her with a kiss, but for all he knew it may still be only five or six o'clock, so he turned away from Ruth and closed his eyes.

* * *

 _ **A/N : As I mentioned earlier, I have not seen the Spooks movie, but have been informed of some of the outcomes by people in the UK who have. I only want to allude loosely to the movie as a back story for Harry. There will be a loose-ish plot emerging in Chapter 7**_


	4. Chapter 4

When next Harry woke, Ruth was still in bed beside him, her sleep deep and untroubled. He quietly left the bed to visit the bathroom, where he urinated, washed, cleaned his teeth, and then shaved. By the time he again climbed under the duvet it was morning, and the low hum of traffic told him that for most people the day had already begun. He snuggled down and turned towards Ruth, wondering would it be presumptuous of him were he to wrap his arms around her and draw her close to him.

As he lay inert, wondering how best to act – whether he _should_ act - he silently contemplated the events of the past few days. Ruth's survival was surreal; him being there with her was surreal; the possibility that after their eleven year drought they may soon become lovers was surreal. He had grown accustomed to disappointment, and so the possibility that Ruth still wanted the same thing he had always wanted was hard for him to get his head around. As much as he would have loved to wrap his arms around her and watch her as she woke, he knew better than to take anything for granted, so he decided to wait until Ruth woke before making any kind of move towards intimacy.

He didn't have long to wait. Harry was leaning on one elbow, resting his head on his hand while watching Ruth sleep. He hoped that she would not be annoyed with him for taking such liberties, but it was _she_ who had crawled into _his_ bed and not the other way around. The first sign that she was about to wake was a slight twitching of her nose, and then he noticed her eyelashes fluttering on her cheeks. He remembered the days – so long ago it seemed – when he had stood by the cot of each of his children, gazing at them in awe as they slept. Each had been a small miracle, and he'd marvelled at their perfection, and how they had smiled at him in recognition when they'd opened their eyes to see him watching. Ruth's eyes opened suddenly, and then once she focused on him, she smiled …... and he smiled back.

"Good morning," he said.

"Mmm, it is, isn't it?" Ruth then rolled onto her back and stretched – arching her back under the duvet.

Harry found her movements intensely erotic, and his body responded accordingly. He reached across to kiss her good morning, but she pushed him away with her hand on his shoulder. "I really need to visit the bathroom," she said, and then she rolled out of bed, grabbed her dressing gown, and threw it over her pyjamas. As she left the room, Harry was left with a mental image of her pink pyjamas covered with primroses. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, imagining how delightful it would be to open each of the buttons of her pyjama top. He would do it slowly, one by one, like unwrapping a gift.

Less than ten minutes later Ruth returned to the bed. Harry could sense a difference in her. She seemed wary and shy, and unsure of herself. "We don't have to do anything if you don't want to," he said, watching her as she fussed with the duvet.

"Are you having second thoughts?" she asked, looking across at him at last.

"No, but I suspect you are." He was almost sure she was. It was their pattern. Three steps forward, and around forty steps back. They had danced that particular dance step for years, and he remembered how tired – and frustrated – it had always left him. Despite her saying she was ready for this, he had his doubts. With one hand he reached across and ran the backs of his fingers across her cheek, culminating in drawing his thumb across her bottom lip. He noticed her pupils widen as her mouth opened. It took every ounce of self control he possessed, which at that moment was not much, to not lean across and kiss her deeply and for a long time. "I'm quite happy to wait," he said. "After all, I've been waiting for almost eight years."

"Eight years?"

"Our one and only dinner."

She nodded, and he could see fear and doubt in her eyes.

"What wrong, Ruth?" he said gently. "I thought that we might …... make love ….. this morning. We're both rested, and -"

"But you don't want to."

"What?"

"You're the one who's having second thoughts, and you're projecting that onto me."

Harry flopped back onto his pillow and lay on his back. Everything that had been up was now down, including his hopes. _Christ_! What was it with this woman? Why did he still love her …... after all this time and continual rejection from her? The silence from her side of the bed gave him some hope. At least she wasn't arguing with him. "Ruth," he said, still lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. "I have wanted to make love to you for …... years. I asked you to marry me, hoping you might want the same thing I wanted. I want you now, and I can't work out what's happening here. I thought we'd agreed that something was about to happen at last, because if it's not, and you no longer want me, then I may as well leave."

Feeling movement beside him, Harry turned to see Ruth quickly getting out of bed. She grabbed her dressing gown, threw it over her shoulders and left the room, all before he had a chance to say anything more. She hadn't once looked at him. He thought of following her out of the room, but decided to give her a few minutes alone. It was clear to him that despite her saying otherwise, she was still the same scared and traumatised woman, and he wasn't sure he wanted to be controlled all over again by her changing moods. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the memory of the past few minutes. He was unsuccessful, and their conversation played over and over in his head in an agonising, never-ending loop.

After around ten minutes of waiting for something to change between them, Harry had his own light bulb moment. What if Ruth was right? What if – all along – he had been the one who was reluctant to take their relationship into adult territory? Was that even possible? He certainly had doubts about his aging body – complete with accompanying expanding waistline – and whether Ruth would still desire him when she saw him naked. What if he was the one who was wary about them becoming intimate?

He was still stunned by his own suspicions when Ruth entered the bedroom after having knocked lightly on the door. They watched each other carefully as she walked to her side of the bed and sat down, keeping some distance between them. "I'm sorry for running from you," she said quietly. "I know I told you I'd not do that any more. It seems it's a behaviour I reserve especially for you."

Harry nodded, allowing a small smile to curve his lips. "I think you might be right about my …... reluctance."

"And you're right about my own fear about ….. getting that close to you."

"Ruth -"

"No. I need to say something …... something I should have said years ago." Ruth briefly broke eye contact with him and then turned back to look him in the eye. "I knew about …... your reputation with women -"

"Ruth, that was so long ago."

"I know it was. Please listen to me and try to not interrupt, even when I say something you think is wrong or stupid."

Harry nodded, feeling chastised.

"When we worked together on the Grid, back just before we had dinner together, I took the liberty of looking at your personnel file." She hesitated, but he maintained silence, so she felt free to continue. "The women you had been with – your ex-wife, and others – were extraordinarily beautiful women, and next to them I was – I am – just plain Ruth." She took another long breath during which Harry really wanted to put her right, but he knew that if they were to get beyond this stumbling block he first had to listen to her. "I was never confident around you. Other than as your analyst I felt unable to compete with …... all those women. I wanted to ... be with you, but I was sure you'd be disappointed with me were we to have taken that step. I …. I found it easier to be intimate with you in my imagination, and to maintain our closeness at work. I had to be satisfied with that, because …... I didn't want to ever …. see the disappointment in your eyes when one day you woke up and looked across at me in the bed beside you and regretted having chosen me."

Harry waited, but she had said her piece. He had never loved her more than he did at that moment. It was when he saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes that he lifted himself onto one elbow and leaned towards her, reaching out with one hand. "Come here," he growled, "I need to hold you."

Had Ruth been able to imagine an ideal response from Harry, then it would have been what he was doing at that very moment. She shuffled across the bed towards him, reaching out to him with one hand. It took a bit of moving and turning and adjusting until she was lying beside him, her dressing gown tossed on the floor, and her legs and torso under the duvet, lying against him. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close to his body. He experienced no sexual response. This was a moment which transcended sex. Ruth reached up and kissed Harry on the neck, and he responded with a kiss to her temple.

"I'm sorry for everything I've put you through," she said quietly. "I should have told you this long ago."

"So why didn't you?"

"I was sure you'd laugh at me."

"Jesus, Ruth. Is that what you think of me?"

"Well ….. you could be a bit overwhelming, you know. I didn't know how you'd take it. Even today …. it took a lot for me to share all that. I was afraid you'd think me bonkers."

"But you are ... just a little bit bonkers, Ruth, and that is one of the reasons I keep coming back for more." He felt her kiss his neck once more, and a frisson of desire rose from deep inside his belly. "Do you know that it is _because_ you are different from those women you saw in my personnel file that I first fell in love with you. You were a breath of fresh air, Ruth. It's your differentness that I love, and even your unpredictability which so frustrates me, but is also at the same time rather exciting. And as for how you look ….. Jesus, Ruth, I find you to be stunning …. even breathtaking. Have you taken a good look at me? I'm hardly an object of desire."

"You are to me. I don't much care that you're carrying more weight than is good for you …... although if you want to be around when I'm sixty years old, then maybe you could lose a pound or two. I don't love you any less because you're not built like Dimitri Levendis …... or Tom Quinn."

"God forbid."

"Ever since I've known you you've always been a bit ….."

"Overweight?"

"Yes. I think of it as having more to love. I'm not especially attracted to slim men."

"I don't cut a pretty figure when naked, Ruth."

"Let me be the judge of that."

They held one another for another few minutes before Harry again spoke. "I suppose I should be truthful also. I've been worried that being so much older than you, and past my physical prime by around thirty years, that I'd not be able to keep up with you …... with your ….."

"Sex drive?"

"Yes."

"Then we agree that it will not become an issue with us. I don't want to lose you over something as …... mundane as sex."

"And if I'm being brutally honest, I don't want to lose you under any circumstances."

They lay back against Harry's pillow, their arms around one another, as they listened to the sounds of the morning outside Ruth's building. In the street below, residents were heading to work and school, while a certain couple were each silently thanking whatever deity would listen for their opportunity to begin again with each other.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N : Thank you again to all those reading and following, and especially to those who have left reviews.**_

* * *

To distract himself from his thoughts, Harry left the bed and prepared breakfast for them both – toast, cereal and a pot of coffee – which he carried into his bedroom on a tray. Ruth sat up in bed while he settled beside her, enjoying the simple domesticity of a shared breakfast in bed. For now they had all the time in the world, and they needed to make the most of it before the world again knocked on their door.

"I have an idea," he said, pouring a second cup of coffee for himself and Ruth, who thanked him for the cup, and lifted her eyebrows to his question. "My suggestion is that we both pack our things and decamp to my rental cottage."

"Which is where?"

"Suffolk. Just outside Felixstowe." He smiled down at her as they each remembered the cottage Ruth had planned to buy for them both. "Unfortunately it's not the cottage you wanted to buy, but it's close to the ocean, and it's quite private. I have no close neighbours." He noticed Ruth's expression – doubting – and the knitting of her eyebrows. "What?" he said.

"My job, Harry. I still have to earn a living."

"Can't your job be done anywhere?"

"I …. suppose so. I'll need a good WiFi signal."

"Done. There's a decent signal at my cottage, along with a broadband connection. It's one of the reasons I enjoy living there. That and the boat which came with it."

"The house has a boat?"

"A small motor launch. I use it to go fishing."

"Any luck with that?"

"The fishing?" Ruth nodded. "Not a lot, but I've only been there for less than two weeks. I'm not sure I'm using the right bait."

Ruth slowly sipped ber coffee and then smiled at him over the rim of her cup. "I guess that settles it then." She concentrated on her coffee for a few moments more. "It's just that if I ….. let go of this flat and move to Suffolk with you …... we're …... stuck with each other."

Harry sat back against the headboard of the bed and watched Ruth closely. "I'll be happy being stuck with you, Ruth, but will you be satisfied being stuck with me?"

"I think …... it might be good for us …... good for me. I can't run back to London, not yet anyway, and so without this flat to run and hide in …..."

"We'll be forced to work out our differences."

"Yes."

Harry waited a few moments before he continued. "Living together is not easy, Ruth. It's ….. it can be tough, even when we care for one another as we do. When we get past the …... honeymoon phase, once ... the sex is no longer enough ..."

"We have yet to do the sex."

"Yes," he said quietly, "I had noticed that."

"You need to know that – other than George - I've never lived with a man for any more that a few days at a time."

"You were happy with George."

"Yes - I was, but living in Cyprus was like being on permanent holiday, and there was always Nico to distract us whenever things became tense."

"We don't have a child to distract us, but I'm sure we can each find something to occupy us during the …... difficult times."

* * *

Two days later they were on their way to Suffolk. Harry had stuffed most of Ruth's possessions into the boot of his car, and what hadn't fitted there was flung onto the back seat. Ruth's rent on her flat was already paid six weeks in advance, and she hadn't even looked back as they turned from her street. She was ready to look forward. Looking back only made her unhappy.

It was two hours and forty-five minutes later when Harry negotiated the bend in the road and told Ruth to look ahead and a little to the right. "First you'll see the sea, and then – just to the left – is the cottage."

"Stop, Harry, please …..."

Harry pulled over, turning to Ruth in consternation. She was staring at the vista before them, and then turned to smile at him. "I always saw us living …... somewhere like this." She quickly unbuckled her seatbelt so she could lean forward, as though getting that little bit closer would give her a better view. "It's lovely, Harry. Thank you."

"It's not the cottage you wanted. I didn't buy that. This is our interim cottage."

"Interim?"

"Until we find the one we want …... to live in."

"You're asking me to …... live with you?"

Harry had already unbuckled his own seatbelt and was leaning slightly towards her. "Of course. I've always wanted that. Haven't you?"

She nodded. "It took me some time to admit that to myself ….. before I could admit it to you. That ….. business with Elena ... and Sasha almost shattered that dream for me. It made me feel ….."

"Like crap."

She nodded.

"Me too, but that's ... the past. We don't have to cart those memories with us, Ruth." At that moment he really wanted to kiss her, but he was still not confident with her. The Ruth he remembered was as unpredictable as the weather, and as she had once told him, timing was everything.

No sooner had he thought the word `weather' than a sharp shower of rain passed overhead. Ruth turned to him, and then – rather unpredictably, he thought - leaned across and cupped his jaw with her hand. "This is good weather for snogging."

Harry didn't need for her to draw him a map. He leaned towards her and kissed her carefully, sliding his hands around her waist as she leaned into him, her fingers sliding around his neck and twirling the ends of his hair, which he'd allowed to grow longer than usual. He liked the feel of her lips on his, and of her hips underneath his hands. He leaned back against his seat, drawing her with him while the rain became heavier, drumming loudly on the roof of the car. Another car drove past, spraying water against the windows. He didn't care.

They settled into a long and enjoyable snog, their first ever proper snog. Their kisses were light and gentle and careful. Hands remained outside clothing, while their lips explored lips and curves of jaws and necks. Harry loved the touch of Ruth's lips on the tender skin of his neck, and he felt her shiver when he kissed her beneath her ear, his tongue lightly glancing over her skin. Ruth lifted her fingers to his throat and traced the line of his open shirt until she reached the light blond hairs high on his chest. She wound her fingers through the few sparse hairs he had there and then blew lightly on his skin. God …... how did she know how much he loved that? He felt himself hardening, and so he began to pull away from her.

"What's wrong?" she asked. He opened his eyes to see her worried expression. He could fake it, saying he was cold or cramping, or some other bullshit lie. Were they back in London with all its messy complications he'd probably make up some reason or other – old bullet wound, cramps in his leg, dodgy knee. Here there were only the two of them, and on this his second chance with her, he needed to be truthful.

"I'm becoming aroused, Ruth, and this is not exactly a ….. convenient place for that to be happening."

Ruth took her hands from him and sat up. "Then we need to go home, but I've enjoyed this."

"As have I."

He was sixty years old, and he'd become excited while kissing his girl. _Bloody hell_. As Harry rebuckled his seatbelt the rain suddenly stopped and the sun's rays sprung from behind a cloud. Harry smiled up at the sun.

* * *

Harry was relieved by Ruth's response to the cottage. She called it a `darling little place' as she rushed excitedly from one room to the other. When she reached the main bedroom she hesitated in the doorway.

"Is it alright if I check out your room, Harry?"

"Our room," he corrected, and she turned towards him and stared, remembering for a moment the brief, but significant conversation they'd had in the minutes after Sasha Gavrik had stabbed her. She'd told him about the bedrooms in the cottage she'd wanted to buy – there were two - one would be his office, and the other was for them. Ruth had thought of her cottage as her gift to him …. to them, and here he was returning the gift. No words passed between them, but they each knew what was meant.

"Our room," Ruth repeated, before she turned again to look into the room. "It's a bit grim," she added. "It needs a woman's touch."

He nodded. "Just so long as you don't introduce frills. I'm not a frills kind of man."

"I know. I just thought it could do with some colour."

He nodded again. He was just happy to have her alive and with him in his hideaway.

Harry again turned in early. The day had been exhausting, with packing Ruth's flat and the car, and unpacking it at the end of their journey, and then he'd driven for almost three hours from Oxford to Felixstowe. Ruth decided to fit in a few hours of translating before she went to bed, and so when she slid into bed beside him it was almost one o'clock, and he was in a deep sleep. She watched him for a moment – his wide chest moving in time with his breathing, his rather feminine eye lashes resting on his cheeks, and then there was his lips in full pout. She resisted the urge to kiss them. He'd not appreciate being woken in the early hours by her need to indulge an urge.

On Ruth's first morning in the cottage Harry woke her at nine o'clock with breakfast in bed. He placed the tray on the small table beside her side of the bed, and then leaned over her to kiss her awake. Again she rolled onto her back, stretched her arms wide and arched her back. Again Harry felt his body respond. Perhaps he should allow her to eat before he joined her in bed.

"I have to ….." he said, turning to leave the bedroom.

"You're not staying?"

"I think I left something turned on." As he quickly left the room he silently chastised himself for his choice of words. Perhaps it was an unconscious admission of his state of arousal, but he didn't want Ruth to be faced with his clear need while she was eating breakfast. By the time he returned upstairs with a pot of coffee and two mugs, his body had settled, and Ruth was sitting up munching on a slice of toast.

"It must be the sea air," she said. "I'm starving."

"I thought we might take the boat out today," he said. "It's a beautiful day."

"You want _me_ to go with you?"

"The offer is there. I know you have work to do, but a couple of hours on the water won't upset your schedule. Why do you ask?"

"It's just that you're …... a loner, Harry, and I imagined you'd have some rule about not having women on your boat."

He smiled at her as he handed her a mug of coffee. "No. I've never had that rule. I'd enjoy your company."

So two hours later they climbed down the steps to the jetty where the boat was moored. Harry carried the tackle box, while Ruth carried a basket with their lunch – just chicken and lettuce sandwiches and a bottle of wine.

"It's just an excuse for a picnic, really," Harry explained, as he'd helped her pack the cane basket. "If I catch any fish it'll be a miracle."

"I hadn't expected you to have a basket like this, Harry. It's the sort of thing a woman would buy."

"It came with the cottage. Malcolm must have needed it some time."

"Malcolm?"

"It's his cottage."

"The cottage belongs to Malcolm? You didn't tell me that."

"I thought you knew. After all, it was he who found you and took the pictures of you. It's he we have to thank for us being here together."

"He owns all of this?" Ruth was still stuck at Malcolm owning the cottage.

"Yes. He owns several properties ….. all over the UK. He came to me at the end of the Qasim operation and offered me this retreat …... for as long as I need it. The only people who know my whereabouts are Malcolm, and now you."

It was all news to Ruth, and she took a moment to absorb it.

* * *

They cast anchor a few hundred yards from the shore. Harry fished while Ruth lay on a towel on the deck, enjoying the sun. Ruth made the right noises of congratulations when Harry caught two fish – both whiting. With her phone's camera she took photos of him holding the fish, promising to email the pictures to Malcolm.

"Please don't," he replied. "He catches bass when he fishes here."

"I like whiting. You can cook it for our dinner tonight."

Harry seemed happy with that, and she watched as he gutted and cleaned, and then scaled each fish. Silently she indulged in admiring the movement of the muscles in his forearms, a delight normally hidden by his clothing. "I'll fillet them at home," he said, "and I have an excellent beer batter recipe. You'll love it."

They sat under the awning which covered half the deck while they ate their lunch. Harry shared with her snippets about his time going dark while in pursuit of Qasim, but Ruth couldn't return the favour. As much as she longed to tell Harry all she knew, and where she'd been for over two years, she couldn't risk it. The new Home Secretary was a hard man, compared with whom William Towers was a lightweight. She had to tread lightly and leave no shadow.

It was after four o'clock by the time they stepped back into the cottage. Harry was still on a high from catching the fish, and he headed straight to the kitchen to fillet them, while Ruth went upstairs to spend an hour translating. After he'd prepared the fish for cooking, Harry had first shower and changed into jeans, a shirt and a thick jumper. A half hour later he went back upstairs looking for Ruth. He'd heard the shower running, so his first port of call was the bathroom. Finding it empty he headed down the hallway to his bedroom, where the light was on and the door ajar. He stepped through the doorway, and what he saw had him stopping and staring, unable to speak or to move away.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N : A bit M-ish - language, and adult activity.**_

* * *

Ruth was standing beside the bed, her back to him, applying lotion to her arms and neck, where the effects of the sun's rays were already visible as a light pink tinge on her exposed skin. Her only article of clothing was a a pair of very brief black knickers. He knew he should turn and leave the room, but he couldn't. He stood on the spot watching silently as she placed the tube of lotion on the bedside cupboard and then ran the palms of both hands from under her chin, down her neck to her upper chest. Harry was waging a war with himself …... to turn away and leave the room, or to move closer and wrap his arms around her. He couldn't move, and nor did he want to move.

"Harry, close the door and come in," Ruth said at last, turning slightly to smile at him over her shoulder.

"I'm sorry …... I couldn't …... I wasn't -"

"Had you left the room when you saw me I would have had concerns about you," she said, turning fully to face him, her palms stroking her neck, rubbing the last of the lotion into her skin. Beneath her forearms he could see her nipples, dark and erect, and lower still was the curve of her waist and then hips and thighs. He found her to be utterly breathtaking. He knew he was staring, but he couldn't help it. It had been such a long time since he'd seen the naked body of a woman, and he'd wanted for so long to see this particular naked body. She was even more beautiful than he had imagined, and he had spent many hours of his life in imagining her without clothes.

He took a few steps towards her, and remarkably she met him halfway, reaching out to take his hand in hers. They stood that way for some moments – an eternity in his estimation – before Ruth smiled widely and stepped closer, pressing her body against his. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. "I really wanted to be the one rubbing that cream into your skin," he whispered.

"Next time," she said. "Next time we take the boat out you can apply my sunscreen." Ruth pulled away from him slightly so that she could look at him. "You've done nothing wrong, Harry. I ….. wanted you in here. The display you just witnessed was my clumsy way of ….. luring you into the bedroom."

Harry was stunned by her words. Was this really Ruth? Almost everything he was discovering about her was the direct opposite of what he'd previously believed about her ….. back when they worked together on the Grid. "A siren's call," he said.

Ruth nodded and then reached up to take his face between her hands. "Kiss me ….. please."

So he did as she asked. The kiss began as a soft, careful, tender kiss, and soon became passionate, his hands exploring her exposed skin, while Ruth lifted Harry's jumper and then his shirt. As her hands ran over his chest and belly he shuddered with pleasure. It had been such a long time since anyone at all had touched him like that. He'd forgotten how good it felt. His skin was hungry for touch, so hungry that he pulled away from her while he removed his shirt and jumper and dropped them on the floor. Ruth tried opening his belt buckle and trouser buttons, but in her hurry she made little progress, so he took her hands in his and pulled them away. "It's quicker if I do it," he said, smiling down at her. Within a minute they each stood next to the bed wearing nothing but their underpants. Harry had forgotten about his earlier embarrassment about his body. Such focus on self was little more than an indulgence, and this was hardly the time nor the place. At that moment he didn't care about being overweight and out of shape, and even better still, it was apparent to him that neither did Ruth.

"Aren't you cold?" she asked.

He shook his head. "If anything, I'm hot."

Ruth turned towards the bed and began pulling back the duvet. "Let's get in. You can keep me warm."

Once they were together under the duvet they lay closely huddled, Ruth curled up within his embrace. They were in no hurry; after all, it had been eight long years since they had had dinner together, and in the interim Ruth had been exiled twice. Still, Harry thought they ought to get on with it; he wasn't getting any younger.

He turned to look at her, still wondering when he would wake up to discover the last few days were nothing more than a cruel and protracted dream. He kissed her on the lips, allowing his hands to move over her skin – down her back to her buttocks and her upper thighs. Her skin was smooth – perfect – and soft. Sensing his need to hurry things along Ruth ran her hands down Harry's arms, then to his chest, his tummy, and then to his own thighs, following her hands with her lips. When she reached his belly button she ran her tongue around inside it. Harry moaned quietly and then lifted her back where he could kiss her. Then he watched her – her eyes, her hair, her neck, shoulders, her nakedness. He could barely take it all in.

"Are you alright?" she asked, a small frown drawing her eyebrows closer.

Harry nodded. "I'm just more than a little …... overwhelmed. Something I'd come to terms with never happening is now …..."

"About to happen …... hopefully."

"What do you mean?" This time it was his eyebrows which drew together in confusion.

Ruth rested her palms on his chest as she drew away slightly to look into his eyes. "Here we are ….. about to …... do what we have somehow avoided doing, despite loving one another for years, and …... you're …... Harry, you're stalling."

"I'm taking my time. I want to remember this. I want you to remember this. I don't want it to be just a ….. desperate fuck, Ruth."

"It won't be, but if we wait any longer, my stomach will be rumbling, and I'll need to send you downstairs to cook that whiting."

Harry watched her for a long moment. She had a point. He was ready to push himself inside her …. apart from his underwear, which he still wore. He'd no sooner thought the word `underwear' than he felt Ruth's fingers inside the garment, partly trying to pull the fabric from his body, partly having a darned good grope. If she kept that up it would be all over before they'd begun.

"Ruth, stop."

"What? Don't you like that?"

"I ….. like it just a little too much. Here, I'll take them off."

And he did, and while he was down there he removed hers as well.

"What comes next?" Ruth asked, and Harry bit back the word `me', and slid his fingers between Ruth's legs, ensuring that she would no longer be in a state to be asking awkward questions, or – God forbid – sending him downstairs to cook the fish. Arousing a woman was something he did rather well, and as she relaxed, then so did he.

In the end they both forgot about the fish dinner and the fact that this was their first time together. Harry was even able to quit worrying about the possibility that Ruth would suddenly sit up in bed and announce that it was all a big mistake, and she would like him to drive her back to Oxford. It wasn't perfect, but it was an immense relief to them both. Afterwards they drew apart from one another, their hands still joined under the duvet, and Harry emitted a deep sigh while Ruth laughed lightly.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"You. You sound like you've just run the marathon."

"After eight years of – frequently interrupted – foreplay, I'm about as knackered as I've ever been."

Truth was he felt amazing – tired, drained, boneless and muscleless, but wonderful. "Are you alright?" he asked her, turning his head to gaze at the woman he could at last call his lover.

"I'm …. I feel ... very satisfied, thank you."

Harry closed his eyes, squeezed Ruth's hand, and emptied his mind.

After what felt like only twenty seconds, Ruth rolled towards him to plant a quick kiss on the skin of his shoulder. "Any time is fine by me, Harry."

"For what? Please don't tell me you're ready for round two."

"Not round two, no. I'm thinking of dinner."

Harry groaned, and then rolled over so that he was above her, his weight on his knees and elbows, his belly resting on Ruth's abdomen. Then he proceeded to tickle her. Ruth laughed so much she almost cried. "Do you want me to stop?"

"Yes!" And he continued, carefully avoiding the small scar across her abdomen, still red and angry after almost three years.

In the end they both called a truce, Harry because he was tired from the eight years of waiting, and Ruth because she had been tickled almost to death, and so they both headed downstairs and cooked dinner together.

* * *

Over the following week their life together began to fall into a pattern. If the day was fine Harry would take the boat out, and if Ruth was not busy with translating she would accompany him. Seven days after their first day on the ocean together, Ruth had stayed up late the previous three nights just so that she could finish her translating and be with Harry when next he went fishing.

Of course, the fishing was little more than an excuse. Harry quite enjoyed fishing, but more than that he liked being a long way from land, the boat rocking beneath his feet. It afforded him a freedom that had been rare in his life so far. School, then university, the army, followed by the security service – all had demanded so much of him, and for so long. Since he had walked away from MI5, he had never felt freer, and with Ruth in his life and ample money in the bank, he believed that he was living the dream.

"I expect you to catch three fish this time," Ruth said as he stood at the helm of the launch, heading away from land. So far Harry's fishing success had been intermittent and inconsistent.

"What if I catch more than three?"

"The-en," she said, inching closer to him and grasping his arm, "I'll make love to you on the deck of this very boat."

"Do you even know how hard this deck is ….. and how old are my knees?"

"I do, and that's why I thought we could try out one of the bunks in the sleeping cabin."

"Even a small child would fall off those bunks. Let's see how many fish I catch, and then we can negotiate my reward afterwards."

Harry caught five fish before lunchtime, and while they were relaxing over a bottle of wine after a ham salad lunch, Ruth slid across the bench seat and began opening the buttons on Harry's shirt.

"Ruth ….. not out here," he said, grabbing her hand to stop her. "Someone might be watching."

"I can't see anyone."

"I have it on good authority that the old man who is our nearest neighbour sits on his front porch with a pair of binoculars. There is nothing so persistent or prurient as a bored pensioner with binoculars."

Harry submitted to her kisses, and then pulled away. "Let's wait until we get home. My days of shagging on a boat are long behind me."

"You've done it on a boat?"

"When I was around twenty. Jane and I took a weekend trip on a barge with a few friends. Noisy sex was mandatory, as was over indulgence in alcohol."

Ruth lapsed into silence, Harry's story of his life long before she'd met him leaving her feeling uncomfortable.

"Ruth …... look at me." And when she turned to look at him, he continued. "It was a long time ago. I'd rather wait until we get back to the cottage, so that we can make love in our bed."

"I thought you might like to do it somewhere different, that's all."

"No, I wouldn't. At home we can take all the time we need. And we can stay in bed afterwards, lying together in warmth and comfort." He leaned across to kiss her once more. He was well aware that even out to sea it was possible for Ruth to run from him. It was a habit she'd not be able to break overnight, but he planned to use all his considerable powers of persuasion to help her move beyond it.

* * *

With five fish in the tackle box they headed home.

"Is that who I think it is?" he asked Ruth, his eyes on the still figure standing on the small jetty beside their mooring.

"It looks like Malcolm."

"No-one else I know wears tweed when they go to the seaside ….. at least not in the twenty-first century."

Ruth smiled to herself. She had to agree with him.


	7. Chapter 7

**_A/N : Thank you to readers and reviewers. I hope you continue to enjoy._**

* * *

Harry stood by uncomfortably as Ruth greeted Malcolm with a warm hug. There was a part of him – a rather childish, jealous part - that wished Malcolm would keep his hands to himself, while another – better – part of him was grateful that Malcolm had the will and the means to have created the opportunity for he and Ruth to have reunited.

"We need to talk," Malcolm said quietly as he and Harry shook hands, and then to Ruth, "Let me take that," and he deftly took the picnic basket from Ruth's hand, leaving her with just a plastic supermarket bag in which they'd stored their rubbish.

Harry went on ahead and unlocked the cottage while Ruth and Malcolm took their time climbing the steps.

"How are things?" Malcolm asked, more to be making conversation than to pry into their private lives.

"I have to thank you for …. suggesting Harry and I meet, Malcolm. It's been lovely so far. It's so much ….. easier away from work."

"Where you're no longer boss and his subordinate."

"Exactly. It's only now that I can see how much of a stumbling block that was."

"Even though you were never shy about telling Harry what you thought. Right from the very beginning you challenged him."

"I did?" Ruth stopped at the bottom of the steps up to the front porch of the cottage, turning to look up into Malcolm's eyes.

"No-one other than Tom was game to say what they thought, and Tom being section chief meant that challenging Harry was part of his job. A section head is not expected to be infallible. Do you remember the EERIE exercise a few months after you joined MI5?"

"Yes. It was one of the most frightening experiences of my life."

"And after the lights came on you called Harry a bastard."

"I did?"

"You did."

"Well, he deserved it. He came out of his office all smug and superior, while the rest of us had been scared almost to death."

"No-one else would have said that. I suspect that he respected you for your effrontery."

"Well," she said, taking the steps slowly with Malcolm following, "someone had to."

Inside the cottage Harry brewed a pot of tea, and then they sat around the small kitchen table as he placed the cups, milk, sugar and then the pot in front of them.

"You've become rather domesticated, Harry," Malcolm observed.

"I've always been domesticated."

"I thought perhaps you were attempting to impress Ruth."

"I have other skills with which to impress her," Harry said crisply, winking at Ruth as he sat opposite her and Malcolm.

"Harry! We have no need to go there." Ruth tried to look scandalised, but she was only reacting that way on Malcolm's behalf. Malcolm was an old-fashioned Englishman – well, Welshman, actually – and references to sex were not normally made in his presence.

"I was referring to my fishing skills, Ruth. You do have a dirty mind."

"Fishing skills!" Ruth gave a small laugh. "Your skills seem to be in repelling the very fish you want to catch."

"Scoff all you like," Harry replied, pouring the tea into three cups, leaving room for milk. "One day …. when I come home with a ten pound bass, you will owe me an apology."

"Dream on, Harry."

Malcolm chuckled to himself, pleased that his efforts to get these two together had paid off. They were both as stubborn as each other, so he imagined they would have some fiery and perhaps difficult times ahead of them. His call was not a social one, so he coughed politely to draw their attention back to him. "I am here for a reason," he began.

"Well, you were not invited, so I can only imagine that you're the bearer of bad news."

Malcolm noticed the sharp look which Ruth gave Harry from across the table. He was not at all offended. He'd known Harry a long time – much longer than had Ruth, although clearly not as intimately – and he knew he spoke bluntly as a means of cutting through the bullshit, the latter term being one Harry had used a lot in his early days on the Grid.

Malcolm could see, having only been in their presence for ten minutes or so, that his suggestion to Ruth that Harry needed her had been the right one. To have waited for Ruth to pluck up the courage to ask would a visit to Harry be a good idea may have taken another three months, and Malcolm had been worried about Harry …. his health as well as his emotional state. Since he'd believed Ruth to have died the man had been living on the edge, almost as though he no longer cared whether he lived or died. Nothing he had to say to Harry could help him; no-one really knew what went on inside Harry's head. As Malcolm saw it, the only person who could save Harry was Harry, but he would be more motivated to save himself were Ruth in his life ….. and the sooner the better. So he had done what he should have done years ago. He had played matchmaker, and what happened after that was entirely up to them. Harry appeared relaxed and happy, although he may well have been faking it, and Ruth seemed calm and in control of her life, something which hadn't been the case for her for some time.

"It's not good," he said quietly.

"Let me guess," Harry began. "There's a really bad man somewhere on the loose in London, and the powers-that-be demand that I leave post-haste to sort out whatever stuff-up someone in high places has created."

"Strangely, that's not all that far from the truth." Malcolm smiled gently.

"Do tell." Harry sipped his tea, but his attention was firmly on his colleague.

"It's …... not unlike the situation with the Russian delegation three years ago, but this time it's the Chinese."

"I can't ever remember sleeping with a Chinese spy, so I trust no-one has come forward claiming to be a child of mine."

"You're right. The Home Secretary is keen to have this ….. gathering go ahead."

"What kind of meeting, with whom, and why is Dickie Meckering so keen on it occurring?"

"Those are good questions, Harry. Meckering is all for the meeting occurring in London. Unfortunately, the delegation – five members of the Chinese trade and finance sector, and their wives – speak almost no English, so they are looking for an interpreter. Dickie has heard that Caroline Brown can interpret all of Mandarin, Cantonese and Wu."

"They have several interpreters at the Chinese embassy," Harry cut in.

"Who are all capable of interpreting for social occasions – receptions and such - but have not enough insight or expertise in the area of trade and finance, which is where they need someone who has the ability to interpret the nuances in both parties."

"I suppose I could," Ruth said hesitantly, "so long as it doesn't keep me in London for too long."

"Out of the question," Harry said vehemently, his eyes dark as he looked at her.

"There's more," Malcolm added carefully, aware that his next revelation would stir up Harry even more. "There is a group in London – chiefly university students and young professionals – who are opposing this trade meeting. They call themselves the Free China group, although what they stand for tends to be quite flexible at this stage. They appear to be against any move China makes to interact directly with the West -"

"Somewhat hypocritical, wouldn't you say?" Harry cut in. "Especially given they're benefitting from our education system."

"And paying a high price for it," Ruth added. "It's not free."

"They're a radical group," Malcolm continued, "and are not above creating mayhem."

"So a couple of MI5 officers, and maybe Ross Kinnear from Six can keep an eye on them while the trade talks are underway. Problem solved."

"That's just it," Malcolm said. "Meckering wants you back in London to coordinate the security detail."

"I'm on extended leave. Tell Meckering to pick on someone else."

"I know, and that's what Will Holloway told him, but he still wants you, and he wants Caroline Brown."

"He wants us both in London," Ruth said at last, her eyes wide with concern.

Suddenly Harry got up from his chair, and moved it to the end of the table, just across the corner from where Ruth sat. Then he sat down and grasped her hand in his, leaning towards her. "I will not allow this to happen, Ruth. Neither of us owe Dickie Meckering a thing. And if you are seen in London – by anyone – it's only a matter of time before Mace gets wind of it. He was not around when you were sent away after you were stabbed. As far as he knows, you're dead, and that's the way it must remain. I didn't trust him then, and I don't trust him now - a leopard and his spots … and all that."

"I have a plan which will ensure the safety of you both. Will has already intimated to Meckering that you may have left the country. I congratulated him on his quick thinking."

"He doesn't trust Meckering either," said Harry.  
"I can't guarantee your safety were you to stay in this cottage. It may be possible for those in the Chinese Embassy to trace Ruth's – Caroline's - ISP, and so find her. If they discover her whereabouts, then it wouldn't be difficult for those in Whitehall to find you, Harry."

"But how do they know I'm sleeping with Caroline Brown?"

"They don't, but there are people working in the Home Office who were there at the time Ruth was working for Towers. It wouldn't take much for them to connect you with Ruth, given that the skills possessed by Caroline Brown are identical to Ruth's."

"Isn't that a long shot?"

"Yes, it is. Were anyone to see Ruth – anyone who once knew her – then I think your cover might be blown."

"What do you suggest, Malcolm?" Ruth asked.

"I have a property in Wales – just outside Holyhead. I think it's the ideal place for you both to lay low for a few months."

"How is it different to us laying low here?" Harry asked, a detectable edge of irritation in his voice.

"It's sufficiently far from London -"

"So is Aberdeen."

"It doesn't exist." Malcolm delivered the small sentence with quiet relish, his eyes twinkling with delight.

"Oh, please. Tell me you've not been drinking."

"It is not on any property register anywhere. It's a stone cottage which was once a vicar's residence, and then once the church was demolished it was occupied by a series of overseers. My father bought it before he met my mother, and he kept it and then left it to me in his will. The cottage was never registered as a separate residence, and when the Church in Wales sold the land to the community, who left it as parkland, the cottage was not sold, but nor did it ever have a separate deed. I own a property which does not officially exist."

"Cunning bastard. How do you do it, Malcolm?"

"I keep quiet. It's amazing how much can be achieved by keeping one's ears open and mouth shut. I contribute generously to the upkeep of the parkland and everyone is happy. Anyway …. my plan needs to be put into place immediately ….. today. I can drive Ruth to Holyhead overnight, and stay with her for a few days while I make sure she's comfortable. I can set up a VPN for Ruth. It may be in her best interests if her electronic footprint appears to come from Asia – perhaps China or Hong Kong."

In the wake of Malcolm's mini-speech there was a long silence, during which Harry grasped Ruth's hand tightly while staring out the window. Ruth already knew Harry's answer, but she waited for him to speak. "As thankful as I am for your concern, Malcolm, I don't think I can sanction another move. My suggestion would be that you – or Ruth – set up a VPN from here."

"You may still be traced."

"We may still be traced were we to go to the moon and hide on its dark side."

"I'm with Harry," Ruth said quietly. "I've only just arrived here and I'm ….. happy. The last time I was happy I was stabbed and then had to fake my death. This feels ... a bit like that all over again."

"I did consider," Malcolm said thoughtfully, "that perhaps you could both fake your deaths, then you're free to be wherever you want to be."

Harry rubbed both his hands over his face and sighed heavily. "I think that Ruth and I should talk about this in private."

"Of course. I'll …... leave you to it. Were I to drive Ruth to Wales I would need to be ready to leave by eleven this evening."

"I'm sure we'll have a definite answer well before then," Harry said, watching Malcolm as he stood, preparing to leave.

Harry got to his feet, preparing to see Malcolm out to his car. He didn't like it, but he suspected Malcolm knew more than he was telling them. Once they were outside, and out of Ruth's hearing Harry asked him just that.

"I can't answer that definitively, Harry. I have a bad feeling about these Chinese talks, and I think that you especially should stay away from London. Richard Meckering has an agenda, and until I know what that is, I think we should all steer clear. Will Holloway is sure that Meckering wants to use you, Harry. Who knows? He may have something already in place."

"Such as?"

"He may have made it easy for the Free China group to have access to some of the members of the Chinese delegation. It's only a short step to public conflict and maybe violence, and if he had you in charge of security, it's perfectly set up for him to charge you with insubordination or some such, and then sack you in disgrace. Worst case scenario …... you could be gaoled, and Meckering looks like he's ridding the security services of a bad egg. He can't be trusted, Harry, and I'm not the only one who thinks this way."

Harry nodded. "I'll talk to Ruth. You must understand that after all the time we've spent apart, neither of us would cope well with even a week apart, so in one way I hope your suspicions are unfounded, but …... I have to say …."

"You agree with my assessment of the situation?"

"I do."

"Then go back inside and talk to Ruth."


	8. Chapter 8

"It's completely out of the question," Ruth said, once Malcolm's car was out of sight. "I'm not going anywhere, and I'll not be parted from you ….. even if you want me to go."

"I don't."

"What?"

"I don't want you to go, Ruth. I think we're safe here …... as safe as we'd be anywhere, and how can anyone find us? I'm renting this off the books, and using a legend. You're using a legend. I trust you know how to set up this VPN thing …."

Ruth smiled across the kitchen at Harry's clumsy attempt to pretend to bluff his way through a technological conversation. He turned away from her and returned to filleting the five whiting from the day's catch. Ruth considered asking did he require her help, but she preferred to be sitting at the table watching him work. She'd done it for years, and all these years later, it was no less an enjoyable activity. "I can do that rather easily. It's easy these days; everyone does it. I'll do it after dinner, just to keep Malcolm happy."

"So you think he's panicking unnecessarily," Harry said, more a statement than a question.

"No, I don't, and nor do you. I think he feels responsible."

At those words, Harry put down the fish and the knife and turned, leaning back against the kitchen counter. "For what? For us?"

Ruth nodded. "He set us up ….. in the nicest way, of course ….. and now he feels the need to protect his investment."

"If I knew anyone suitable, I'd return the favour."

"And how do you think Malcolm would take that?"

"Not well, but I wish I knew a single woman of around fifty years of age, who enjoys opera, the theatre, and obsessing about gadgets."

"I'm sure a woman such as that exists somewhere, Harry, but even if she did, we have to leave him to find her in his own time."

Ruth watched him for a long moment. She could almost see the wheels of his mind turning. She thought of asking him what was on his mind, but decided against it. She had an idea what he was thinking, but they first had to take care of the immediate situation. "Do you mind if I ring Malcolm now?"

Harry shook his head. "The sooner the better. What say you invite him to dinner with us?"

Ruth had been thinking along the same lines.

* * *

Two hours later the three of them were again seated at the table in the centre of the small kitchen, but this time their conversation centred around the fish and Harry's skills both as a fisherman and as a chef.

"I told you," Harry said, rather enjoying the attention, "I'm a domesticated man. I don't require a woman to cook for me."

"Were I so inclined I might want to marry you myself."

Malcolm's comment shocked both Harry and Ruth into silence. They looked across the table at one another and smiled. Ruth slowly shook her head but was too late.

"You might have to fight Ruth for my hand, Malcolm," Harry said, and Ruth could tell how much he was enjoying himself.

"I wouldn't want to come between the two of you. It was just a ….. throw away line."

"Good, because Ruth can be a bit of a tiger when she gets angry."

Ruth felt Malcolm turn and look at her, while she kept her head down, wishing Harry would shut up. "The fish is lovely, Harry," she said at last. "Now all you have to do is catch that bass you promised me."

"But I thought you preferred whiting."

"I was only humouring you."

"Well, thanks for that. Perhaps I should give beach fishing a go."

"Perhaps you should."

Malcolm remained silent throughout their exchange about fishing and Ruth's fish preferences. He wasn't absolutely sure whether they were joking …. or not.

When dinner was over Ruth took Malcolm into the living room while Harry tidied the kitchen and washed the dishes.

"You have him well trained, Ruth."

"Oh, I don't know. I think he's just trying to prove a point."

"Yes. Harry is rather prone to that."

They sat together on a comfortable couch under the window, each with a glass of wine in their hands. Ruth could feel Malcolm's discomfort as he tried to find a suitable starting point for the conversation. Eventually she was the one to put him out of his misery.

"We'll be alright, Malcolm. We each have legends which don't link us to our jobs, and I'll set up a private network in the morning."

"You'll need several."

"I know."

"I have this," Malcolm said, reaching into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small USB stick. "You'll find the software for creating proxy servers on here. It's rather straight forward. Use it with any VPN."

"Thank you, Malcolm," she said, taking the USB drive and slipping it into the pocket of her slacks. She then looked up to see him smiling. "What?" she asked.

"I'm really glad you and Harry have decided to stay here for the duration."

"Why? I thought you believed us to be in danger were we to stay here."

"Perhaps I was panicking unnecessarily. I tend to do that these days. I wasn't able to provide Harry with any clear direction at the time he was on the run, so …... I think I've been trying to compensate ever since."

"There's no need for that, Malcolm. Harry and I can look after ourselves."

"Have you told him about …... where you were?"

Ruth shook her head and looked down at the worn carpet on the floor. "I think I need to do that soon …. just in case ….."

"The proverbial hits the fan," Malcolm added.

"Yes. I don't know what Richard Meckering is up to, but his call for both Harry and me to be in London for this ….. this -"

"Misguided display of pretending friendly relations with China."

"Yes. I can only hope the Chinese secret service is up to speed with this."

"I suspect they're way ahead of the game."

Ruth nodded, and then Harry entered the room. "Anyone for a top up?" he asked, a fresh bottle of chablis in his hand.

* * *

By ten o'clock Malcolm had left and Ruth and Harry again sat at the kitchen table, this time over a pot of English Breakfast tea. Harry had already checked that all the downstairs doors and windows were locked.

"I have something to tell you, something you need to know …... about where I was for two years."

"Ruth, you don't have to."

"But I do. I'm not even sure my time away – and the reason for it – was passed on to Meckering. All I know is that he knows I'm the resident expert in not only Mandarin and Wu, but Cantonese."

Harry waited to ensure she had finished speaking, then he took a rather deep breath. "I knew you could speak Wu, and your Mandarin had been rusty, but back when we worked together Cantonese was not one of your languages, which means that you must have been in Hong Kong."

"Among other places, yes. I spent around a year travelling in China. I had a very good guide and teacher of the local languages. When she had to return to her job, I then travelled to Hong Kong and spent a year there, where I worked as an assistant to Stephen Matthews at the University of Hong Kong. He's a linguist, and specialises in languages of China, especially Cantonese."

"Ruth ….. who organised this, and do you have any idea why?"

"I'm not sure, but I have …... my suspicions."

"Towers?"

"This doesn't have his ….. stamp to it. My two years away was ….. calculated to coincide with ….. _something_ , which may or may not be these trade and cultural exchange talks."

Harry was about to reply, but held back. There was a worm of an idea forming somewhere inside him, but which was not yet clear. He sat back and sipped his wine, all the while watching Ruth. What had surfaced that very evening was the possibility that his bringing Ruth to this cottage to live with him may not have been the safest and wisest of ideas. There was a possibility that whoever it was behind Ruth's sojourn to China and Hong Kong was still working somewhere in the Home Office, or even one of the security service advisory committees, and that they were biding their time until …... what?

"Ruth …." he began. She turned her body on the couch so that they had direct eye contact. For the umpteenth time since he had first met her he marvelled at her eyes, and how they softened when she looked at him. He hesitated, not wanting to destroy the peace and quiet they had managed to create in that cottage. "I'm wondering whether it was wise of me to have brought you here. After all, anyone connected to me may be dragged into something which may or may not be messy."

"So what else is new, Harry? I came here with my eyes wide open. I'm well aware of the dangers."

"But you agreed to come here anyway."

"Of course. Life is short, and happiness is fleeting. This may be the only chance we get, and I don't want to lose this chance …. even if we only have a few weeks."

Harry carefully placed his wine glass on the coffee table and then turned back to Ruth. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her, reassure her that he would do everything in his power to keep them together, but he also knew they would be empty words. Ever since Malcolm had shared dinner with them something else had been sitting at the back of his mind.

"Ruth," he said, "do you have any idea where William Towers is? Does he have a …. hideaway, or a villa in France, somewhere he'd go to escape London and unwanted attention?"

"You want to look up Towers?"

Harry nodded. "He seems to be the only clear connection between what happened to you two and a half years ago, and what may be going on now."

Ruth turned to stare ahead, her eyes focusing on something other than the Turner print on the opposite wall. "Just before the Russians turned up, Towers was going through a divorce."

"He was?"

"Didn't you know?"

"I knew he was …. preoccupied. I had no idea over what. It wasn't my job to know …. was it?"

"I suppose not," Ruth replied quietly. "It was my PA – Margot – who filled me in on the salacious details. Towers' wife demanded the villa in Italy, and so that left him with their country home in England. He only ever stayed in their townhouse in Maida Vale while he was in London. I …. think the country house was somewhere just outside Cambridge. It had been in his family for a couple of generations. I ….. suspect that he's living there."

"Could you …."

"Do some digging? Of course. Once I've privatised my network. Why?"

"I think we need to pay him a surprise visit."

"Mmm …." Ruth pondered the idea for a minute or so. "I suppose the worst that can happen would be that he throws us out."

"Ruth …. he'll not do that. I have too much on him."

" _You_ have too much on him? Margot once told me about his …. assignations with …. well, perhaps I should keep that to myself."

"That's enough talking for now," Harry said, leaning across to kiss Ruth. "I still have to collect my reward for catching five fish."

Ruth pulled away from him, watching him carefully. Harry was slouched on his side, his elbow resting on the back of the couch. "Hmmm," she said, looking away from him briefly. "I imagine that's your way of saying it's bedtime."

Harry stood wearily. "It is," he said. "Coming?"

"I'll be up in a few minutes. I need to ….. check something online."

"Can't it wait?"

"If I don't check now it will drive me mad."

"Alright," Harry said, reaching over to kiss her again. "Don't be long."


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N : Thank you to those who are still reading and reviewing. This story looks like being around 20 chapters long - give or take - although I still haven't finished writing it.**_

* * *

Ruth's search took longer than expected, and time passed quickly. By the time she powered down her laptop and closed the door to the back bedroom thirty minutes had passed. In their bedroom Harry was under the duvet fast asleep. Ruth felt bad, especially after it had been her idea that he be `rewarded' for his fishing efforts. Using sex as a reward for a successful fishing expedition was a silly idea, really. It had been her suggestion – a joke – but in the quiet of late evening it was no longer even slightly amusing. She had let Harry down …. reneged on a promise. She undressed quietly, put on her pale blue flannel pyjamas, and climbed into bed beside him, moving slowly so as to not wake him. As her eyes adjusted to the dark she could make out the shape of his head on the pillow, and the familiar features of his profile. As she watched him he slept peacefully, his chest and shoulders moving slowly and steadily. She turned to face him, burrowing her own head into her pillow until she was comfortable, wondering how someone who had seen so much, lost so much, could remain so calm during sleep.

It wasn't to be long before her question would be answered.

* * *

Ruth was woken by movement on the mattress beside her. By the time she'd turned to face the man in the bed beside her he was shaking his head from side to side, an animal sound coming from him – not so much a cry as a deeply primal keening which issued from deep in the back of his throat. From under the duvet he was attempting to lift his arms, but the covers were too heavy. Then he bent his knees so that the duvet lifted, allowing a draft of cool air to wash around them. The keening continued, but after a time quietened, and then he began speaking – quickly – the words tumbling from him, pleading words, imploring, then cajoling, his voice softer – his spy's voice. Then he began to utter names – names Ruth recognised. They were names of some of his operatives. He said `no, no, no, no' over and over, and then what followed was the sobbing. Deep, heaving sobs lifted his chest, and real tears ran down his cheeks as again he moved his head from side to side. "No, no, no, don't make me do it," rattled from his mouth as rapidly as machine gun fire.

Normally reliable in a personal crisis, Ruth found herself out of her depth. She suspected she should wake him, but what if he became violent, mistaking her for some unseen enemy? She remained inert, not even touching him. His nightmare couldn't last forever. If nothing else, physical exhaustion would eventually bring it to an end.

Then as quickly as it had begun it stopped. Ruth waited for Harry to wake. Suddenly he sat up in bed, his eyes open, his pupils dilated. What Ruth saw was a frightened, traumatised man. Very slowly, she reached out to touch his arm. As expected, he jumped at the touch, but didn't pull away. "How on earth did you get here?" he said hoarsely.

"You were having a nightmare, Harry. I'm here ….. in bed with you, like I always will be."

Suddenly he turned to lift the duvet, preparing to get out of bed. This time Ruth grasped his arm more tightly. She knew that he needed to stay with her …. in bed ….. where she could at least comfort him while he came back into the present.

"I need to get help," he said, still struggling with the duvet.

"I'm here," she said gently. "I'll help you."

And just as suddenly, he flopped back on to his pillow and began to cry quietly. Ruth saw his crying as a good sign, and she rubbed her palm up his upper arm and over his shoulder, over the material of his t-shirt. After a few minutes the crying ceased, and Harry lifted his other arm and wiped his eyes. "I feel like a fool," he said, and it was with those words that Ruth knew that Harry was back in the room with her, leaving his nightmare scenario somewhere within his dreaming life.

"What do you need me to do, Harry?"

He answered without missing a beat. "I need you ….. to hold me." So she did. Ruth slid down in the bed, instructing Harry to turn towards her. She slid both her arms around his shoulders and pulled him even closer, although he had to do the moving, being so much heavier than she was.

"Do you want to tell me what happened? It might help. If you share it, it's …..." and she couldn't continue with the clichéd, `a problem shared is a problem halved', because in this case it simply wasn't true. Harry carried so many secrets, most of which would die with him.

He was silent for some minutes, resting his head against Ruth's breasts, his breathing now normal. Then he began to speak, and the past five months spilled from him like blood flowing from the open wounds of a dying man. He told her everything he'd done and everything he'd seen – the fear, the deaths, the horror of it all. Ruth had learned the bare bones of the story from Malcolm, but Harry's perspective was so much more immediate and dramatic …... and much of his experience had been hands on. When he slowed and then stopped, Ruth uttered a quiet, `thank you', and kissed his forehead and then the top of his head.

What followed was what they both needed. They had been living their lives on the surface, enjoying their time together away from the world, but never fully engaging with the separate experiences they had each had during the past three years. They'd been living in the present, hoping the past would not catch up with them. During the night the world had entered Harry's dream state and thrown them both back into the place where they had both lived for far too long. Not only did Harry require comforting, but so did Ruth. She had her own reasons for sadness. She had sacrificed almost three years of her life to a cause she did not yet fully grasp. Again, she and Harry had both been tools of the state, their losses far greater than they were at this moment able to comprehend. What Ruth had not fully understood when she had transferred to MI5 all those years ago was what it truly meant to sacrifice one's life to the greater good. Was what Harry had witnessed, had to carry out …... was it all for the greater good? Once Ruth had believed that everything she did had some wider and more significant purpose, but now she was not so sure. There seemed to be a lot of bloodshed, loss of life, broken lives and fractured minds strewn along the path to achieving this mythical greater good. Were those lives and those unique and sometimes brilliant minds not worth preserving? Privately Ruth grieved for the man Harry could have been, but could now never be – the man who was whole, and who could be loved and respected by his children.

When Harry lifted his face to hers and began kissing her, she did not hesitate returning his kisses. She needed the intimacy of his touch just as much as he needed her, and when she felt his hands search for her skin under her pyjama top, she quickly opened the buttons and tossed the garment on the floor beside the bed. When she turned back to him he had removed his t-shirt and was pushing his track pants down over his hips. As she settled beside him, his hand slipped under the duvet to pull her pyjama bottoms from her body. On the way back, he slid his fingers over her moist skin and inside her.

Ruth experienced a moment when she wondered whether having sex after such a highly charged encounter was such a good idea. She mentioned it to Harry, who lifted his head from her breast, and said, "This is one of those times when it's absolutely necessary."

Harry was very aroused, and had been since soon after he'd nestled against her after he woke from his nightmare. She had a thought that perhaps he was having a `back to his mother's breast' moment, but she chose to keep that to herself. She closed her eyes, determined to stop her mind from interrupting what should be a powerful experience for them. She ran her palms over his bare skin, culminating in taking him in her hand and caressing the tender skin. When he gasped, she opened her eyes. He was ready, and so was she.

This time the act of love was a little different for them. Despite their combined need for comfort and nearness and then release, they took their time. Ruth suspected that time slowed down during the hours of night. It seemed to be a very long time that he hovered about her, and then moved inside her, all the while watching her closely, as if he feared she'd disappear. When at last he shuddered inside her, she allowed her own release to overtake her. They lay for some time in post orgasmic exhaustion, and eventually Ruth drifted into a deep sleep.

When she again awoke it was morning and she was in bed alone. She went straight to the bathroom for a quick shower to wash away the remnants of their lovemaking. Despite the cool night air they had both been covered by sweat as they had rested after they'd made love. Once dressed, Ruth went downstairs to find Harry sitting at the kitchen table, dressed and ready for the day. He looked up and smiled as she entered the room.

"I've made pancakes," he said, "and the coffee is fresh and hot."

He appeared to be a new man - a fresh, vibrant and energetic new man, as opposed to the exhausted person he'd been throughout the previous week. The previous few months had drained him, and now Ruth knew why. How could she not have known? She had lived that life, seen things, been horrified by events far less frightening than those Harry had shared with her during the night. She had shot and killed a man, and had enjoyed the brief moment of victory. It was in the aftermath of that killing that she had been overwhelmed by self hatred. She knew that she should have reserved her hatred for the man she'd killed, but it had been so hard to hate a dead man; it had been so much easier to hate herself.

She sidled up to him as he stood in front of the cooker and placed the pancakes on a serving dish. She slid one arm around him and kissed his cheek. Harry placed the dish on the kitchen bench, freeing him to wrap both arms around her. They could have ended up in a healthy snog, but they simply stood together with their arms around each other. That was enough, and the contact said everything that needed saying.

Almost.

"Harry," Ruth said after a while, "I owe you an apology."

"Here was I thinking I owe you one."

"Whatever for?"

"For taking advantage of you …... after I woke up from my …... nightmare."

"You didn't take advantage of me. I wanted it as much as you."

He smiled down at her and gave her a quick kiss. "So ….. why are you apologising to me?"  
"For suggesting you need to return to work for the service. I had no idea, Harry. What you told me was …... shocking, and I don't want that for you ….. not now, not ever."

"But ….. you know these things happen. I haven't even told you about Northern Ireland. That was much worse."

"You were younger then. There must come a time when you reach a point where you can take no more …... isn't there?"

"I suspect I reached that point several years ago, and your death – which wasn't a death – drove that home like nothing else had."

"I've always believed that I could push it all from my mind ….. forget it."

"I can never forget it, Ruth. Last night was the first nightmare I've had in around three weeks. Immediately after …... the events I described, I barely slept. I was like that every night for two weeks, and when I did sleep I'd wake up in a sweat. I'm glad …... grateful you were with me last night. I'm sorry you had to witness that."

Ruth reached up and placed her fingers on his lips to stop his saying anything else. "I'm in this for ….. all of it, Harry, even the tough times. We can get through this, but we have to ….. trust one another."

Harry nodded, took her hand from his mouth, and then kissed her. This time it was a proper snog. Breakfast could wait for a minute or two.

* * *

 _ **A/N: I have deliberately avoided naming the names of operatives involved in `the horror' during the course of the Spooks movie. I do not wish to spoil it for readers who have yet to see "Spooks: TGG".**_


	10. Chapter 10

By the time they had finished eating breakfast what had begun as light drizzle had become a steady downpour.

"I imagine fishing is out of the question," Ruth observed as together they washed and dried their breakfast dishes.

"I'd like to go online for a while," Harry replied, absently scrubbing the cast iron skillet pan in which he'd cooked the pancakes. "Then I might read for a while. I brought a pile of books from London, with every intention of reading for at least two hours a day. The first week or so I was here I was too depressed – or hung over - to read, and since you've been with me, I've been …..."

"Busy?"

He nodded, smiling. "Preoccupied."

"In a nice way."

"Definitely in a nice way ….. the nicest possible way." Harry kept scrubbing the pan, and Ruth considered pointing out that the pan looked clean to her, but she held in her words. She was glad, because Harry kept talking. "I need you to know, Ruth, that this last ten or so days with you have been among the happiest of my life."

"Mine also. I also need to remind you that we're in the very early honeymoon phase, and so what today we each find attractive in the other may be a source of irritation some time down the track."

"You speak like someone who knows, Ruth."

"Do you remember Gary Hicks ….. the journalist?"

"How could I forget him? He witnessed the death of Clive McTaggart, and …. I found his …. attachment to you ….. irritating." Harry squinted as he concentrated on scrubbing the skillet pan.

"It was only at the time of McTaggart's death that I realised how …... _annoying_ Gary could be. I had once found him ….. intelligent and interesting." Ruth looked up at Harry and rolled her eyes.

"Maybe he was an interesting man, and then cheque book journalism turned him ….."

"... into a prat!"

Harry looked down at her and smiled. "I promise to never turn into a prat."

"No-one can ever make that promise, Harry. You've already had your fair share of prat-like moments."

Harry ignored her comment, lifting the skillet from the dishwater and examining it closely. "I think it might be clean now."

* * *

Harry had been buried, lost in the world online for what seemed like ten minutes, but was probably a couple of hours when he heard Ruth's footstep on the stairs. Checking the time on his laptop he was shocked to learn it was a little after 1 pm, and he had been surfing, reading, emailing, and searching for over three hours. He turned towards her as she entered the living room. By the smile on her face he could see that she'd had a productive morning. She stood behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Startled at first by her boldness, he leaned back into her embrace. It felt good to be this close to someone; it felt _so_ good to be this loved. He had not experienced anything like this for …... such a very long time, and at this time in his life, whilst not athletic or young enough to match his sexual prowess of thirty years ago, he was wise enough to appreciate the love of a good woman. He smiled at his thoughts. His father had often preached to him about the value of `the love of a good woman.' "It will change you, son," James Pearce had said, but it hadn't ….. not really, not until now.

"What are you smiling about?" Ruth asked, reaching around him to kiss his cheek.

"My father. He once told me that the love of a good woman would help me to grow up, and it has."

"I suppose it's never too late," Ruth mused.

"I hope not. I've always wasted my opportunities with women ….. until now."

Ruth stood up, and Harry missed her presence at his back. "You haven't asked me why I'm downstairs," she said.

"I assumed you were hungry."

"Maybe I am a little, but I've found something important."

Harry rolled his chair away from the desk and turned it to face Ruth. He grasped her hands in his and drew her to stand between his knees. "I know you're dying to tell me, Ruth, so what have you discovered?" Suddenly Ruth felt shy. She shook her head, remembering that Harry was now her lover, and not her boss. "What?" Harry asked, grasping her hands tighter. His reaction was still based on his fear that she was about to do a runner.

"I've spent the last three hours trying to trace the Towers residence. In the end I had to access the land register. Do you know how many villages there are north of Cambridge?"

Harry smiled at her, proud of her accomplishments. Without Ruth Evershed, the world – _his_ world – would quickly descend into chaos.

* * *

The following day it was still raining, but only lightly, so after an early breakfast they headed off in the direction of a small village ten kilometres north-east of Cambridge.

"I've never heard of it," Harry had stated when Ruth told him the name of the village.

"You're not expected to know the names of every village in England, Harry."

"I know. I just thought, being near Cambridge, I may have heard of it."

"And it's not actually _in_ any village at all."

"How like Towers to swap London for a place in the middle of nowhere."

"I think the nearest pub is just over two kilometres away. Hardly in the middle of nowhere."

They were a half hour from Cambridge when Harry asked the question Ruth had been waiting for.

"How are we going to approach this, Ruth? Have you worked out your plan?"

"For once, I have no plan. I've checked the property on Google Earth, and it appears open and with easy access, but there may be security, and if there is, we'll have to wing it."

"I doubt Towers would have security on a country property. There'd be no reason for it."

"I thought the same thing, so if we simply drive up to the house and get out of the car, what then?"

"Most people would ring the doorbell, Ruth …... unless you're planning to go in with handguns and a SWAT team."

"You're my SWAT team, Harry." Ruth glanced at him, and he smiled back at her. This was one of the simple joys of being together at last. They had always bounced off each other, at least they had during the good times. During the bad times they had barely exchanged a word, the air between them heavy with their shared anger, confusion and grief. Harry had never been more aware of his latent grief than when he and Ruth had not been communicating, and then when he'd believed she'd died, his grief had lain heavy in his heart, like an unwanted guest who never left. Sitting together in the car like that, happy, content, hopeful, they both hoped the contentment lasted.

* * *

"That's a little more than a country cottage," Ruth said, as Harry stopped the car on the brow of a small rise which overlooked Blair Reid, the country home of William Towers.

"And those are not sheep," Harry added, his hands draped over the steering wheel.

"Horses? Who knew Towers liked horses?"

Harry turned to Ruth and reached out his hand. "There are binoculars in the glove box. I need to do a quick reccy." Ruth did as he said and handed him a compact pair of binoculars, which he put to his eyes, silent while he scanned the property at the bottom of the rise. "The gate is open, and the drive towards the house appears clear …... but I can't see beyond the trees."

He handed the binoculars to Ruth, who looked through them. "Definitely horses," she said, "and there is movement in the barn. I can see moving shadows through the open doorway."

Harry started the car and drove slowly down the hill to where the large white sign over a white wooden gateway announced the name of the property, and the name of the owner: _G T & C Towers_.

"That's rather a good ploy," Harry said, turning the car in through the gateway. "leaving the names of Towers' parents on the gate, although I doubt anyone outside this area knows they are the parents of the former Home Secretary."

"And I believe they're both still alive," Ruth added, "and living in Devon or Cornwall. William's mother was a Reid and an only child, and she inherited the property from her parents. Why would she not want it?" Ruth's question remained unanswered.

Harry drew the car past the trees which had blocked their view from the top of the hill, and they found themselves in a vast cobbled area between the house on the left and the barn on the right. He pulled up near the house, recognising the black Range Rover parked near the house as belonging to William Towers. It was a little after eleven-thirty am.

"Let me go in on my own," Ruth began, unbuckling her seat belt.

Harry reached out and put his hand on her forearm. "Do you think that's a good idea?"

"Yes, Harry. I do. You might say something …."

"Regrettable."

Ruth nodded, watching him for any further reaction. "When I'm ready for you to come inside I'll ring you. Alright?"

Harry nodded. "Take care," he said, and he meant it. He slid his hand down her arm to her hand and squeezed it, smiling briefly as he did.

Ruth quickly left the car, carefully closing the door behind her. She walked along quite a long pathway which wound between small trees and shrubs until she arrived at the front door of the house. She glanced through a window to the right of the door to see William Towers, dressed in shirtsleeves, a cup of tea in his hands, and a look of shocked surprise on his face. Ruth smiled through the window, and then rang the doorbell. While she waited for him to answer the door, she turned towards where Harry sat alone in the car, but she didn't have a direct line of sight, and could only see the back half of the car. When she heard the door open, she turned back to smile into the surprised eyes of the former Home Secretary.

"Ruth. This is a surprise. Do come in. Tea?" He was clearly a man used to entertaining visitors, but Ruth had a sense he was not all that pleased to see her. He led her through the door to the right into a large sitting room with a bay window overlooking the garden. "Take a seat near the window," he said. "I'll pour you a tea."

Ruth didn't require a tea, but she knew she'd have to go through the ritual of accepting and drinking a cup. This also gave her time to decide how and where she should begin. She didn't have long to wait. Towers entered the room carrying a tray which held a pot, a cup and saucer and a small jug of milk and a tiny bowl of sugar. She poured her own tea and then added milk and sugar, and sat back in her chair.

"Am I right in assuming this is not a social call?" Towers began, his eyes darting to the window and then back to Ruth.

"You're right …. Home Secretary."

"Good God, woman, enough of the formality. I spend my days grovelling around in horse shit. I can't even _remember_ what it was like to work in the Home Office."

"But it was only six months ago that you were ….."

"Unceremoniously booted from office."

He had spoken the truth, so Ruth couldn't see any point in arguing about the way in which he'd left. His party had turned their backs on him. He was no longer useful to them, so he'd had to go. William Towers had chosen to resign before he was publicly disgraced. They wouldn't have had far to look to find some dirt on him with which to `persuade' him to leave. "Well," she said, "that's one way of putting it."

Towers chose a heavily upholstered chair across the low table from Ruth. "You're probably about the last person I expected to turn up here unexpectedly," he began, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "Unless you're about to bollock me from here to Moscow and back, I can't imagine under what circumstances you'd want to see me."

"The idea of ….. giving you a ….. piece of my mind has been high on my list of necessary tasks to complete, but perhaps not any more. There are more …. pressing issues at hand. I didn't come here alone ….. William …..."

"Don't tell me you've found Harry Pearce. That would be -"

"Yes," Ruth interrupted him just as he was about to launch into a tirade about what Harry had or hadn't been responsible for. "Harry's outside. In the car."

Towers leaned forward in his chair, his face again showing surprise, and perhaps eagerness. "Bring him in, then. Bring him in."

"Not so soon. I have something I wish to say without Harry in the room. He tends to be -"

"A bloody nuisance, and a thorn in the side of every government who have attempted to bring the counterterrorism section into line."

"What I was about to say is that Harry can be very protective of me."

"Don't I know it? That's one of the reasons he couldn't be in on what happened to you when you were stabbed by that lunatic Russian boy. He would never have allowed you to be sent off overseas while he stayed here to face the music."

"And this is what I wish to discuss before I ask him inside. I need to know ….. who was responsible for me being sent away, whose idea it was for me to go to the far east, and did that decision have anything to do with the current move towards getting friendly with China."

As she'd been talking, Towers had sat back in his chair after having placed his empty cup and saucer back on the low table. He stared across the space at Ruth, his expression serious. "I'm about to tell you something which you're not meant to know, and I only tell you this because I was against the decision from the outset."

"You're talking about the decision to declare me dead?"

"In the first instance, yes. There were a … series of decisions made at the time, none of which I was happy about. I wanted you back on my team, Ruth. The last thing I wanted was for you to be gone from my office."

"But …... Harry and I were planning to leave."

"I trusted my own powers of persuasion to be able to talk you into staying on, even if only in a part time capacity."

"So ….. who have I to thank for my untimely `death' and my trip to China?"

Towers had stood and had moved to the window, standing in almost the same spot he'd been standing when Ruth had arrived at the door. As he began speaking he looked through the window. "Once it was known you were going to pull through, and that your survival would most likely result in Harry leaving MI5, there was an overnight emergency meeting of the JIC – minus Harry, of course, since he was in no fit state to be attending any meeting, JIC included. By two in the morning they had agreed on a decision, which was delivered at six in the morning to both the Prime Minister and the Foreign Secretary. I only found out when the PM rang me at home at six-thirty." He turned to look at Ruth, but she was staring at her hands which were folded in her lap. "By the time I found out I had no say in the matter. I tried to plead with the PM on the grounds that your services were needed by my office, but his reply was that they had a more important task in mind for you."

Which was when Ruth looked up and spoke, her voice a monotone. "It's about the talks with China next month, isn't it?"

Towers nodded, slowly walking closer to her so that he stood across the table from where she sat. "I'm afraid so." He turned to look through the bay window. "Do you think Harry might like to join us now?"


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N: Thanks to all who are still reading and especially to those who are leaving reviews. The plot is still unfolding, and this will continue for the rest of the fic.**_

* * *

Towers greeted Harry like he was an old friend, inviting him to pour himself a cup of tea, and directing him to sit near Ruth.

"We have a bit of a story to tell you," Towers said once Harry was seated on a chair close to Ruth, cup and saucer in his hands. "Ruth? It might sound better coming from you."

So Ruth, who had finished her tea, turned in her chair to face Harry, and told him everything Towers had already told her.

When she had finished speaking he waited for a few highly charged moments, the muscles in his jaw working away. "So," he said at last, looking across at William Towers, "you gave this the green light?"

"You know how this works, Harry. The JIC advise government, and then government informs me. I protested, but no-one was listening. Do you seriously think I wanted Ruth to leave my employ and swan off overseas? And I knew I'd have to be dealing with the mess you became after you believed Ruth had died. It wasn't an outcome I welcomed at all."

"Perhaps then you could tell us both what these people expect Ruth to do with her newly developed skills." Harry's voice was quiet, poisonous, a snake ready to strike. He leaned forward in his chair, and Ruth was afraid he might spring towards Towers and grab him by the throat.

"The JIC thought – believed – that they could buy off Ruth by offering you and her your freedom after the event. It wasn't meant to have taken this long, but negotiating with China is a …... delicate business at best, and what was meant to be no more than four to six months has now turned into almost three years. Cabinet clearly hadn't entertained the idea that in the almost three years since this had first been planned either of you may have found another partner, and so wouldn't have been concerned about going anywhere with the other. Clearly that isn't the case." Towers looked from Harry to Ruth and then back to Harry. Neither moved. Eventually it was Ruth who spoke.

"Do you have any idea what has been …... planned for me …... for this ….. series of meetings with the Chinese? What do they expect me to do, and if it's what I suspect, what makes them think I'll comply?"

Towers took a deep breath and then cleared his throat. "As you already know, since December last I have not been …. in the loop, but I was emailed a summary last November when the talks eventually made it into a memo to my office. In a nutshell, the government – this current government – have an agenda for the talks."

"So ….. how is that any different from any other talks?" Harry asked, exasperation clear in his voice.

"It's not, but on the surface, Britain needs to be seen to be open to being friendly with this particular economy. There is a push by the DG of MI5 -"

"Bloody hell!" Harry said, standing suddenly and walking to the bay window. "Him again."

"Yes, I believe the three of you have a history." Harry made a sound which could have been a laugh, but Ruth knew that Harry was not in a laughing mood. "Oliver Mace believes he has enough on you, Ruth, to have a hold over you. I was not ever privy to the details, but I suspect that he believes your cooperation will be assured if he offers you an incentive such as freedom to go wherever you want after the event. I believe that his intention is for you to act as interpreter during the talks, but with a twist. What that twist is I can only guess. Given China's human rights record -"

"Oliver can talk!" said Harry from the window.

"Given China's human rights record, and Oliver's penchant for torture, I believe that the talks will end up being about something else entirely."

"Such as?" Ruth was beginning to experience genuine anxiety.

"I shouldn't be saying this, but I no longer have loyalty to my former office ….. but I suspect …. that the trade will be a trade of prisoners between the two countries."

" _Jesus_!" Harry said.

"Britain is planning to contract out the torture of terror suspects to China, in exchange for what?" Ruth asked. "Trade favours. Sanctions?"

"I believe the official story is educational investment in Western China, which always sounds good on paper, and hopefully is feel-good enough to hide the real story. That's only my assumption, and because I was not approving of the move, I was …... encouraged to resign from office. Oh, that wasn't the official reason, but I know that I wasn't the right person for the job in the current climate."

"Malcolm Wynn-Jones told me your name had been …..." Ruth was not sure how to finish the sentence, given there was probably some truth to the rumours.

"Dragged through the mud?" Ruth nodded. "Yes, I fully expected that, which is why I spend my days here. I bought a number of horses for my daughter, who is horse mad, and so she visits me regularly, along with a gaggle of noisy friends, both male and female. Their company keeps me interested in the world they will be inheriting. I feel I have enough to do here to not miss the cut and thrust of life in London."

There was a long silence during which all three people in the room remained alone with their own thoughts. Harry felt relieved to be out of MI5, if this was what was being – officially this time – sanctioned. William Towers worried about the wisdom of sharing what he knew, even with these two experienced and accomplished spooks, while Ruth's anxiety rose.

"What should I do?" she asked, looking firstly at Harry, whose back was to her, and then at William.

"I have an idea for you both," Towers said. "It occurred to me as soon as Ruth told me you were with her, Harry. I assume you are not planning to go along with the plans the JIC created for you. You could, of course, but you'd have to leave your ethics at the door, and collect them each evening before you go home. I also assume you're planning to live together ….. somewhere. I think I may be able to help ….. if you would like my help, that is."

"I ….." Ruth began, "have no wish to be part of the talks with the Chinese, even as an interpreter. I just want to ….. go home."

Hearing the tone in her voice, Harry turned around and returned to the chair he'd sat in after he arrived. He shifted the chair closer to Ruth, and then reached out to grasp her hand in his, all the time watching her face. William Towers was stunned into silence by what he saw. Harry Pearce had a soft heart, and had been brought to his knees by his love for this woman. He'd heard the rumours, and had listened three years ago when Ruth had informed him of her intention to leave and live somewhere in the country with Harry. He'd accepted what she'd told him of course, but had not imagined that the pairing had a chance of enduring the usual stresses and complications of a long term relationship. After all, Harry was a spy – a hard, cold, sometimes brutal spy – and like other spies he had to be a mess emotionally. Towers could hardly believe the change in Harry. He leaned forward in his chair. "I think it important to remind you that you must cut off all contact with the outside world, especially your electronic contact."

"Is that really necessary?" Harry asked, a note of irritation in his voice.

"I'd say it is absolutely necessary."

"But William," Ruth said, "I'm working for the Chinese embassy in London. I translate documents. I need the work. Are you seriously suggesting I stop? Wouldn't that …... arouse suspicions?"

"Ruth has set up her network at home to give the appearance that she's still in Hong Kong. If necessary, she can change that to any country in the world."

"Alright, if you think you'll not be traced, then keep doing your work by all means, but you'll need to be somewhere London can't find you or contact you, other than by phone should you feel the need to share your number. I have an idea which may work for you both, assuming you wish to go somewhere safe … for the duration of the talks. Here's what I can offer you."

Ruth and Harry, still with hands joined, both turned their attention to Towers. "What are you talking about?" Harry asked belligerently. "Neither of us are prepared to leave the UK right now, not when Ruth has only been back home less than six months."

"I'm talking about a home – a temporary home. Somewhere of your own …. for as long as you need it."

"We already have that," Harry replied. "We're living in a …. property owned by Malcolm Wynn-Jones."

"And your connection with Wynn-Jones is a weak link. Anyone who knows you both could make that connection."

"Can't …... someone else do the interpreting?" Harry asked, irritated with everything and everyone. "I fail to believe that Ruth is their only option. There must be hundreds of people who can do the same job."

"No doubt, but when Richard Meckering makes up his mind, he rarely changes it. I am sure he has his reasons, and he'll not happily take no for an answer. As well as being a snobbish, arrogant sod, he's as hard as nails."

Towers sat back in his chair and watched them both. They seemed interested, so he continued. "My daughter's boyfriend's father is a developer. He buys run-down properties for a song, renovates them, and then sells them for a healthy profit. He always has four or five on the go at one time. There's a place – a small farmhouse near the Norfolk town of Cromer – a house which had been abandoned for around ten years. This man bought it because his wife saw the potential. Now, the house is not yet ready for sale, but it is habitable. He only recently rang me asking did I know of anyone who wanted a short term rental in the area. At the time I thought of you, Harry, but I let it slide, not knowing your …... long term plans. I think it might suit you both. It's secluded, but beautiful, has all the mod cons, and I imagine you could live there for anything from a few weeks to six months ….. or even longer." He hesitated, looking from one to the other. "What do you say?"

Harry looked at Ruth, and they each waited for the other to speak first. "I think Ruth and I might need to talk about this in private," Harry said at last.


	12. Chapter 12

Harry drove them to a pub in one of the villages they'd passed through on their way to Towers' home. It was not the closest pub to Towers, so hopefully they'd be viewed as tourists out for the day. They took a table by the window, with a view over where their car was parked.

"What about your car, Harry? Couldn't you be traced through that?"

"My own car is back in London. I left the keys with Catherine, just in case she needs to use it. As far as she knows I may be gone anything from a month to a couple of years. I bought this car in the name of my legend …... David Valentine."

"That's quite a ... lovely name." Ruth looked down at her glass of squash, giving herself time to think. "I think I need another legend, Harry. How will we go about that?"

"If we decide to leave his cottage we'll have to inform Malcolm, and at the same time we can get him to create another legend for you …... just to be on the safe side."

"Then I'll be three people, rather than two."

"Mmm," Harry mused. "How will I manage three of you?"

"Well, Harry, firstly you don't _manage_ me. All you have to do is love me, and you can do that no matter what my name is. Secondly, I will have three names – one for the translating, one for our time in hiding, and then there's me, Ruth. I will always be Ruth, no matter by what my name I'm called."

"You sound like you've made up your mind already."

"As much as I really don't wish to move from where we are, William's reaction tells me that there is a genuine ... push to get us both back for these trade talks, and the best place to hide is somewhere they don't expect. No-one would expect me – or you – to take refuge in the UK. We'd both be expected to leave the country. And ... strangely ... I'd rather Norfolk than Wales."

That sealed it for Harry. Although he hadn't always, he had learned the hard way that his life was less of a struggle when he trusted Ruth's judgement. She generally saw situations clearly, and with a minimum of emotion. She had certainly seen through Lucas North long before the truth had caught up with him, and she had viewed the situation with Elena and Sasha Gavrik through clearer eyes than he'd had at the time. He'd been so used to handling his life on his own, stumbling chaotically from one drama to another that he'd not allowed for the clear insight of others. That would need to change.

"When we've finished lunch we should head back to Villa Towers," was all Harry said in reply.

* * *

Six days later Ruth and Harry, with all their possessions from Malcolm's beachside cottage loaded into Harry's second hand BMW, headed west and then north before they took the A140 to Norwich, and then to Cromer. They spoke little for most of the trip, so Harry turned up the volume on Classic FM, resulting in Ruth turning towards him while raising her eyebrows.

"What?" he asked.

"You didn't ask me whether it was fine with me for you to do that."

He quickly turned down the volume, which had Ruth reaching out and turning it up again. Frustrated with attempting to follow the language of their relationship and failing abysmally, Harry stared ahead, focusing his attention on the road ahead.

"Harry …... we have to talk about this. We're no longer boss and chief analyst. We're meant to be equals ….. aren't we?"

The stress of the last few days, while minimal compared with a major incident at work, had been more noticeable because this time Harry was going into hiding with another person, a person whose opinion of him mattered …. a lot. When faced with situations such as this, his default reaction was to say nothing. It was only then that he recognised how much alike were he and Ruth. Her escape when stressed was to run away. His was to simply say nothing for fear his words would escalate the situation. That way he could not dig himself deeper into trouble. He had to say _something_ , even if what he said made no sense to her.

"I ….. really hope we are." When she didn't respond he kept going. "I don't know what to say, Ruth. I know I've ….. messed up somehow, but I'm not sure what's going on here."

Ruth reached across and placed her hand on his shoulder. Her hand was warm and he enjoyed the contact. "All I'm saying is that while we're travelling in the same vehicle, whether the volume of the radio is turned up or down needs to be a joint decision. I just think we need to sort out ….. these things as they come up. If we don't do it with the small things, then when we are facing the big things we'll ….."

Harry turned to look at her. Her expression was serious, but not angry or upset, so he supposed that meant that his transgression, which had barely registered with him, was also not a major one to Ruth. As much as he didn't wish to become a slave to Ruth's will, he was heavily invested in keeping sweet with her. It was about to become a miserable few months if they couldn't work peaceably together. "I think I understand," he said quietly, his eyes again on the road ahead. "I should check with you about things which may ….. affect you." He waited for a few heartbeats, but she gave no response. "It's just that ….. I've lived on my own for so long that I have no idea at all about what may affect you."

Harry felt Ruth sigh beside him. It wasn't a sigh of irritation or resignation so much as a sigh of `it's going to take some time to train this man.' Harry had hoped that he and Ruth would not have to face the mundane issues such as this. He loved her so profoundly, and desperately wanted them to work, but he was beginning to see that a place of contentment together would not be found without careful communication and compromise, and he had never been terribly good at either.

"So..." Ruth said at last, squeezing his upper arm, so that he was aware of her touch, "what about we take things one at a time?" He nodded, recognising that this was about the only strategy which had a hope of working for them. "I'd always imagined you to be a Radio 3 kind of man."

"Sometimes I am," he said, "but while driving I prefer Classic FM." He quickly turned to look at her, and saw the very welcome curve of a smile on her lips. "Is that alright with you?"

"It's ….. perfectly alright, Harry," and again she squeezed his arm before dropping her hand and returning it to her lap.

Harry had a horrible feeling that perhaps she'd been playing with him ….. just because she could. Women had done that before, and in their last years together one of those women had been Jane. The longer they lived together the less he'd understood her. In the end he decided that she did what she did because it bewildered and annoyed him. It was as though she was the cat to his mouse. Had it not been for their children and their quite satisfactory sex life, his and Jane's marriage would not have lasted beyond two years. At the time he'd not been faithful to her, had not seen the point in being faithful when a whole smorgasbord of women surrounded him wherever he went. He knew that Jane's often erratic behaviour towards him, and then her long term depression had all been a direct outcome of her disappointment with their marriage and her frustration and anger towards him. She had invested her whole life in their marriage, while he had only ever lived with one foot in the marriage, and the rest of him elsewhere, looking for excitement and stimulation in other places. He had moved on from those days, but had still not mastered the art of putting another's needs ahead of his own. It was something he would have to learn, and fast.

* * *

"God, Harry, it looks ….. abandoned. How can we possibly live here?"

The narrow lane, flanked by close plantings of elder trees already in flower, led them to a wide wooden gate. Harry put the car in neutral and applied the hand brake. Beyond the gate a narrow track ran through an attractive blanket of wild grasses to a house, dark and apparently abandoned. "It's been renovated?" he said aloud. Privately his thoughts were much the same as Ruth's, but he needed to lift both their spirits. They had left behind a pleasant existence overlooking the sea near Felixstowe for ….. _this_.

"Perhaps we should drive through the gate," Ruth suggested, "and then we can take a closer look. Who knows? It might be nice inside."

The house was rectangular in shape, of two stories, windows punctuating the stark stone walls. The roof sloped steeply and was made of what appeared to be slate shingles. The roof, strangely, appeared to be in pristine condition. From where they sat, only fifty yards from the house, it appeared that no-one had visited it for at least a couple of years.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" Harry asked. "It looks nothing like the images Towers sent us."

"It's the right place alright," Ruth said before she opened her door so that she could open the wooden gate. Surprisingly the gate swung open on well-oiled hinges. Harry drove through and she waved him on, choosing to walk through the grass towards the house. By the time she reached the house he was at the front door, the key in the lock.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked, smiling at her.

She nodded. She only hoped the house had electricity. All she needed at that moment was a strong cup of tea. Ruth watched as the door swung open and Harry stepped inside. She was happy for him to be the guinea pig. She'd wait outside for his assessment.

"Ruth," he called out from inside. "It's …... it's amazing."

She followed him through the doorway, hoping he was telling the truth. He was.

Inside the house was bright and airy, the walls painted white. Ruth followed Harry from the small entry hall to a vast area which appeared to be the main living area – kitchen at the back, with dining area next to the kitchen, while the other half of the area was living room. The house appeared to be fully furnished, something William Towers had mentioned several times, although Ruth had wondered whether his description of fully furnished would match her expectations. On the wall opposite were large wood-framed doors which opened on to a terraced area, and through these doors Ruth could see the valley below the house, stretching to the village of East Runton, beyond which the sea stretched to the horizon. She stood on one spot and lifted her hands to her face.

"What's wrong?" she heard Harry say from across the large living space.

"Nothing," she said quietly. "Absolutely nothing at all. This is ….."

"It is, isn't it?"

Ruth turned towards Harry and by some unspoken mutual agreement they moved towards each other and into one another's arms. They held one another for some time, each relieved that their hideaway was not only habitable, but remote and rather luxurious.

"Our bedroom and en suite is on the mezzanine floor," he said against her hair. "The upstairs area is out of bounds ….. apparently it's not finished."

"The owner ran out of money?"

"No. The contractor went broke. What's important is that the downstairs and the mezzanine are finished and ready to go."

"I love it, Harry," she said, pulling away from him and looking around her, chiefly to ensure that she hadn't imagined it.

* * *

After they unpacked and then visited Cromer to stock up on supplies of food and drink, they ate a leisurely dinner and then took their wine on to the terrace, where they sat at the small outdoor table and drank in the view.

"Thank you for this, Mr Valentine. Or is it Sir David?"

"No. One knighthood is enough of a burden for one lifetime thank you, Mrs Valentine."

"Speaking of which," Ruth continued, "if we're going to pretend to be married, we might require wedding rings."

"I have them," Harry said, moving to get up from his chair.

Ruth reached out with her hand, stopping him. "Not now, Harry. Later is fine. I don't want to spoil the moment. This is …. so nice."

Harry sat back down and lifted his wine glass to his lips. He had only just swallowed his mouthful of wine when from through the sliding doors they both heard the ringtone of his pay as you go phone. He sighed heavily. "Only three people have that number," he said, "and one of those three is you."

"Answer it, Harry. If you don't, they will just keep ringing you."

"The shit has hit the fan," were the first words Harry heard when he answered the phone stating his legend's name. The smooth voice on the other end belonged to William Towers.


	13. Chapter 13

_**A/N : Thanks to readers and reviewers. I had to have our couple settling into their new home. It is in the next chapter that things begin to move along plot-wise.**_

* * *

"I knew I should have changed my mobile phone number," Towers continued, and Harry knew that eventually Towers would take a breath, and it would be his turn to speak. "Bloody London. I've heard from my successor and he's a trifle upset. Apparently they sent Ruth an email requesting her presence in London in twenty days. Her non-reply has not gone down well. I gave them three other names of quite skilled interpreters, but apparently Dickie would like Ruth. He mentioned something about Mace and that other awful man from Six …. what's his name?"

"Gerald Haggar?"

"That's the one. They have a bee in their collective bonnets about Ruth paying them back for their generosity."

"What?" _What bloody generosity?_

"It seems that somewhere in the security services Ruth's survival is being viewed as a gift to her. These mad individuals believe thay have control over life and death."

 _And some of them do_ , Harry thought. "What do you want me to do about this? We haven't received any unsolicited calls or messages of any kind, so the electronic blocking measures are working."

"I'm just letting you know, Harry."

"And perhaps for the time being you should call me David, and my wife Emma."

"Of course. How careless of me, although I was under the impression this communication is safe."

"I'm assured it is, but just in case ….. to be on the safe side..."

"There's been a major stink about not being able to lure you back to London. I think they may be short on security staff for this Chinese shindig."

"I was decommissioned. Give me one good reason why I should care."

"That's almost word for word what I told him."

And the conversation continued with Towers making enquiries about the house, and how they were settling in. By the time he closed his phone Ruth was standing just inside the large doors, a full glass of wine in each hand. "It's getting …. chilly out there. I thought we could finish this inside." Harry understood her meaning to be: `This is your opportunity to share the content of your phone call with me, but I will never ask you directly.' They settled at the dining table, elbow to elbow rather than sitting opposite one another. Harry needed Ruth near him. Her presence made him feel safe, solid, and most of all, having Ruth nearby made him feel normal, when his whole adult life had been anything but normal.

"Should we worry about this?" she asked, once he had shared with her the gist of the phone call.

Harry lifted a finger to scratch his cheek, an unconscious gesture while contemplating his reply. "I'm sure we have nothing to be worrying about. If one of them turns up at the gate, then yes, perhaps panicking might be in order."

"But no-one knows we're here, Harry. Not even Malcolm knows where we are, and William assured me that our presence here would not be recorded officially."

"Or at all. Malcolm and Towers are the only ones who know our legends, and they would never give away that information."

Harry took a mouthful of wine and then gently placed his glass on the coaster in front of him. "I think this is all a storm in a teacup. Towers is bored being away from the heart of things, and your being back in the UK and not playing nice with the bad boys is the most action he's seen in six months."

"I hope you're right." Ruth played with the stem of her wine glass, wondering whether Harry was just humouring her so that she wouldn't worry unnecessarily. Unfortunately, worrying came rather easily to her, and she had been doing a lot of it since the day they had visited Towers at his country property. "Are you tired?"

Harry turned towards her, squinting slightly. "What does that mean, Ruth?"

"It means, are you tired? What do you think it means?"

"We-ell …... it could quite easily mean `are you up for sex', to which my answer will always be yes. It could also mean that you are tired, but don't wish to retire early on your own. On the other hand, it could be a simple -"

"Alright, alright. Is this you pointing out that you heard me today?"

"On our way here?"

"Yes, because if it is, it's not necessary that you examine every word I say for meaning. Sometimes I might just be asking you if you're tired …... out of love and concern for your wellbeing."

Harry put his arm around her shoulders and drew her closer. The kiss was soft and undemanding. "I could do with an early night. The bed looks comfortable, and I'd like to try it out. And …."

"What?"

"I have to remember where I put our wedding rings. We should get into the habit of wearing them."

* * *

Ruth arranged the pillows around her for support – leaving one pillow for Harry – and tucked the duvet around her. The night air was crisp, not cold, but she liked the feeling of being tucked up in bed with a book, her bedding surrounding her like the warm arms of a lover. The only problem with a lover's arms was that they were attached to a lover who might not appreciate her cutting herself off like this, which was why she was reading as quickly as she could before Harry entered the bedroom. She could hear him fossicking around in the walk-in wardrobe, no doubt in search of the wedding rings Malcolm had given them before they left his cottage. Ruth knew that Harry would not even consider going to bed until he had found them. He was like that – bull-headed, determined, and more mule-like than she could ever be – and despite her frustration with him when he was fully focused on a task to the exclusion of all else, she would not have wanted him to be any other way. She knew she could rely on him, and it was his bullishness that had been one of the reasons he was such an effective section head. In the almost three years they had been apart his love for her had not wavered or faded, even though he had believed her to be dead. Such had been his determination to keep her memory alive inside his mind. `It was my memory of you which kept me going,' he'd told her while they were lying in bed on their last night in her flat in Oxford.

"Found them!" Ruth put her book down and smiled. Then she began counting …. one-and, two-and, three- "They fit, too … or mine does," he said, stepping out of the wardrobe and into the bedroom. " _Ru-uth_ ….."

"What?"

"Where do I sleep?"

"With me. Where else?" Ruth put down her book and unfolded herself from the duvet, while at the same time sliding across to her side of the bed, leaving room for Harry. When she was again comfortable she looked up to see Harry still standing beside the bed wearing only a faded green t-shirt which had seen better days, and his black trunks, which despite their dark colour, displayed his assets quite clearly. On the open palm of one hand were two gold rings. "Get into bed," she said. So he did.

Harry did that thing Ruth had been led to believe all men did when they got into bed. Firstly he lifted the duvet high enough to allow all the coldest air from the far corners of the room under the covers with them, while at the same time sliding close to her and wrapping his cold feet around her warm ones.

"Bloody hell, Harry!"

"I love you."

"Nice try, but you need to warm up a bit before we get any closer."

Before she had a chance to stop him, he'd wrapped both arms around her, pulling her close to him. "I have your wedding ring in my hand," he said close to her ear.

"Which hand?"

"That's for you to find out."

Ruth stopped trying to get distance from him and turned to face him. "Your left hand."

He shuffled around under the duvet and then presented her with an open left palm …. with no rings. Ruth used to play a similar game with her father. He'd have a 20p coin in one hand and she had to choose which hand. Try as she might, she never saw him pass the coin from one hand to the other. Ruth dived under the duvet to grab Harry's right hand in both her hands. Using her fingers she forced his hand open, but there was no sign of the rings. Then, for reasons she could not explain, she shoved one hand inside his underwear, because she couldn't think where else he could have hidden their rings. She didn't find any rings, but while there she discovered that Harry was enjoying their game in more ways than one.

"Ruth," he gasped, "if you want my body, all you have to do is ask."

"How can a man with such cold feet have such a hot -" and her words were lost as he kissed her, wrapping is arms around her. Ruth noted that Harry hands were splayed across her back, so no wedding rings there.

"I'm always hot for you, Ruth," he said as he lifted away from her, and the moment was broken by Ruth collapsing into helpless giggles. "What? It's true." She rolled away from him on to her back and laughed aloud, the tension she'd been holding in since Towers had called lifting as she laughed herself into a state of total relaxation.

Once she'd calmed she turned to look at her companion. He had one eyebrow raised, and his lips had moved into a full pout. She couldn't work out whether he was amused or unimpressed, but really …... she didn't much care. "I'm alive, Harry, and so are you, and …... we're together. Isn't that …...?"

Harry's expression slowly changed into a warm smile, and he reached across and kissed her gently. "It's a miracle is what it is," he said, hesitating over kissing her again …... and he _really_ wanted to kiss her again.

"I wasn't laughing at you, Harry …. not really. I just needed to ….. let go a bit."

Harry had placed his elbow on his pillow, and his head rested on his hand. "I know," he said. "Would you like to relax some more?"

Ruth covered her mouth with her hand, suppressing the urge to laugh aloud. Harry had some corny lines, and there she was thinking he'd been such a success with women. With lines like that, Ruth thought he must have slept with a lot of stupid women. "I won't sleep with you again until we're properly married."

Harry frowned. "You're not serious."

"I'm absolutely serious. You promised me you had my wedding ring, then you hid it in your shorts, and then -"

Again Harry cut off her words by kissing her, and this time the kiss was tender, but passionate. It took a while before they came up for air. "You've been inside my shorts, Ruth, and you know that everything I have in there is meant to be there. Here," he said, and he turned and lifted his pillow, under which Ruth could already see the two gold wedding bands. He took the larger one and handed it to her. When she opened her mouth to object he put a finger on her lips to silence her. "With this ring," he said, after he'd lifted himself so that he could lean against his pillow, "I declare you to be Emma Valentine ….. my wonderful, temporary spouse," and he reached out with the smaller of the two rings and carefully slid it on Ruth's finger. It fitted perfectly.

"Now it's your turn," he said. She repeated the vow, this time declaring Harry to be `my hubby, for as long as I need you to be,' and then they kissed.

This time nobody laughed, no-one was outraged, and very soon what clothing they wore was discarded to the foot of the bed while they consummated their `marriage'.

* * *

While Harry and Ruth were performing their private marriage `ceremony' a young man in London sat on his bed, reading through the documents he'd spared from the shredder. He'd not done anything like this ever. In fact, the worst crime he'd ever committed was when he'd stolen cigarettes from his Uncle Ken when he was ten. He'd only taken three cigarettes, but (somehow) Uncle Ken had known not only how many smokes were missing, but who it was had taken them. His uncle had sat with him on the terrace out the back of Uncle Ken and Auntie Linda's house while he smoked the cigarettes, one after the other. His uncle had also rubbed his back while he gagged and then threw up. Max had been a non-smoker for the fourteen years since.

What to do? He knew the pages he'd saved from the shredder were important, but he wasn't quite sure why. Two names were mentioned several times throughout the document, two names which he'd heard spoken only recently by his boss, while in conversation on the phone with the current Home Secretary. Then there had been the weekend he'd spent with his girlfriend Jess, at her father's property. Late on the Friday evening he'd crept downstairs to get a drink when he'd overheard Jess' father on the phone. He remembered most of the conversation, chiefly because Jess' Dad's voice was hushed, like he was exchanging secret information. Given Jess' Dad had once been the Home Secretary he'd be the last person with whom he'd want to share what he'd heard, but the words, ` _a couple of my old spooks need somewhere to hide out_ ' had stayed with him. Perhaps he should begin with his own father, and see what he could find out without asking direct questions.

But first, Max needed to think about this awhile. He believed he held the fate of two people in his hands, and just one wrong move could prove disastrous.


	14. Chapter 14

The residents of the farmhouse a couple of miles outside Cromer had developed a pattern to their days. To keep up with her work load Ruth had to devote at least twenty-five hours a week to translating, and if she worked efficiently, that left her with many hours free to spend with Harry. In their time together they went for walks; they walked in every direction from their house and back again. Since the house sat on a rise, the walk home was always the hardest, as the last few hundred yards to the house were uphill. On sunny days they set out in late morning with a picnic lunch, finding spots which were shady or sunny, depending on the weather, and sitting down while they ate their packed lunch. One warm afternoon they'd found a clearing in a copse, the ground beneath their feet grassy and warm. While they sat on a small rug in the sun, finishing off a bottle of white wine, Harry suggested they remove their clothes.

"Feel free to get naked, Harry, but I'm leaving mine on."

"I thought you wanted to try ….. places other than our bed."

"That was when we were on a boat out to sea. Here ….. here someone might see us and take a picture, and post it on Facebook. How would that look?"

"Who, Ruth? The nearest living person is at least a mile away."

"The Google plane might fly overhead just as we're ….."

"The what?"  
"You know, the plane that takes overhead pictures of the whole earth and puts it on the internet. It might fly overhead just as we're ….. getting naked ….. and everything." Ruth already knew she'd talked herself into a corner, and that Harry was about to make fun of her, even if it was in a nice way.

"Ruth ….. the Google plane, as you call it, is welcome to photograph me making love to the woman I love and thought I'd lost. Were they to catch us … _in flagrante delicto_ , I'd send copies to all my detractors."

Ruth had no answer to that. She couldn't deny that she was flattered, even though the thought of Harry sending aerial pictures of them naked to the likes of Richard Meckering and Oliver Mace was disturbing. She still refused to undress, although Harry removed his shirt and lay on his back, allowing the sun to kiss his pale skin.

After a week of picnic lunches Ruth found that she was a little behind with her translating, and having to translate from Russian to Mandarin was requiring more concentration than were she translating from English. She knew that Harry was keen to try fishing from the beach, so she suggested to him that she stay home alone while he go fishing.

"Are you sure?" he said, concern clear on his face.

"I'm fine, Harry. You have a phone, I have a phone, and while you're out I'll lock all the doors and set the security alarm."

Doors locked and security alarm set, Ruth settled at the dining table with her laptop and began translating. Beside her on the table sat her phone should anything untoward occur. She had a view through the large glass doors, although her view of the front door was obscured by the wall leading into the front entrance hall. Within thirty minutes she was lost inside her work.

* * *

By the time Harry reached the beach a half hour had passed. He'd needed to call into a bait and fishing shop and buy the right bait to catch cod, or anything at all. He knew he could catch whiting, and would have been happy were he to catch one or two. After he'd cast his line into the waves he secured the rod in the sand and sat down on a pile of seaweed and allowed his mind to wander. He wasn't sure whether he was the one who needed time alone, or whether they were spending a few hours apart for Ruth's benefit. They had both spent long periods of their adult lives alone, and Harry was ready to lay his life wide open to Ruth's scrutiny. He enjoyed her company – always had – and as much as she often confronted him and pushed him into places where he was not comfortable venturing, he knew that he needed her, so that in his opinion even a few hours away from her was time wasted.

He allowed himself to relax as he gazed out to sea. A wind had whipped up so that some of the waves were white capped. He loved the sea, and often during the turbulence of adolescence had wondered whether he should have been born a fish – preferably a dolphin, or a shark. Without his knowledge or permission, his mind wandered through the terrain of the previous few years – years without Ruth in which he had believed he'd never see her again, but despite that belief he had held her memory as close to him as though she were alive somewhere in the world. To operate in his world he'd had to compartmentalise, keeping his emotions in a box which he kept locked away. While sitting on the beach not far from Cromer on the Norfolk coast, Harry felt hot tears coursing down his cheeks, while deep sobs tried to find a way out of his chest. He breathed deeply through the sobbing, and it soon abated, but the tears continued to roll down his cheeks, dripping off his chin. Since being with Ruth again, he had managed to keep under control the sea of emotions which he'd carried with him these past few years.

Harry had to be honest with himself. He was still scared silly of losing Ruth all over again. He had lost her twice already, more if he counted their misunderstandings, and the long weeks they had spent apart during his suspension after he'd given away the Albany file. Truth was, he couldn't bear to lose her again, but he had to learn to give her some space. To insist that she stay within his line of sight could potentially damage them as a couple, and he couldn't afford for that to happen.

He looked further along the beach to see a couple of men, perhaps father and son, sitting on low camp chairs, chin-wagging while their rods and lines bobbed with every wave which hit the beach. He could never picture himself with his own son on this beach. What would they talk about? Cricket? Football? Girls? Harry shuddered. He'd been long gone from his family home by the time Graham required the father-and-son talk about girls and sex, and he'd have hardly been the best candidate for the job. What had he known back then about relationships? About women? He barely knew the basics even now.

His thoughts were interrupted when his fishing line became taut, drawing the tip of the rod downwards. As quickly as he could, he stood and attended to his line. The tug of a fish on his line had brought him back to the present.

* * *

In the farmhouse outside Cromer Ruth had spent a solid two and a half hours working. She considered ringing Harry just to check to see how his afternoon was turning out, but vetoed that idea. She had to give him some space; it was clear to her that he sometimes needed time away from her. The very last thing Harry would want was a needy woman crowding him. She stood up and wandered through to the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee. Mug of steaming coffee in one hand she headed to the large double doors which overlooked the valley below and the village of East Runton beyond. She suspected Harry would be fishing somewhere near the village, where the beaches were wide, with ample space for everyone. The trees to the east of the house were swaying in a strong breeze while the clouds had darkened since Harry had left. Ruth hoped the rain would hold off until he got home. She had only just had that thought when she heard a sharp rap on the front door. Hadn't he taken his keys? It would have to be Harry. No-one else knew they were hiding in that house until after the Chinese talks were over.

Ruth hesitated, not sure whether she should ring Harry, just to determine it was indeed him. _Silly woman_ , she said aloud as she carefully placed her mug of coffee on the coffee table as she passed through the living area on her way to the front door. She had only just entered the entrance hall when there was another rap on the door, this time louder and more insistent.

"Co-ming," she called. "Did you forget your keys?"

Ruth was about to open the door when she decided to play it safe by looking through the spy hole. What she saw had her stepping back and taking a deep breath. On the other side of the door stood a young man – somewhere in his 20's – and she had never seen him in her life. She was sure he was not some local farmer's son. He was dressed well, like he lived in the city, and his dark brown hair was cut short, and he wore dark-rimmed glasses. Ruth entertained a random thought that he looked like one of the mathematicians from GCHQ, only he was far better dressed. She looked again. To her eyes he appeared wide eyed and innocent. Were Harry there, he'd tell her that the innocent ones were the very ones that needed watching, but he wasn't there, and Ruth was suddenly curious. When the young man again rapped on the door, Ruth slid the safety chain in place and very carefully unlocked the door, opening it as far as it would go. "State your name and your business," she said curtly, hoping her visitor couldn't hear the tremor in her voice.

"Err …. I'm sorry to trouble you, but I'm here on a whim. My name is Max Bellchambers, and my parents own this property, and the daughter of William Towers is my girlfriend. I'm not here to cause trouble, or to disturb you in any way. If your name is Ruth Evershed I have some ….. information which may interest you. It's …." and the young man shuffled around in an attempt to gather together the manila folder which he'd been holding under his arm. "This is a document which I saved from being shredded," and he shoved the folder through the gap between the door and the door frame. "I work in the Home Office, as a …... dogsbody actually. I was meant to shred what is in that folder, but when I looked at it …. well, you'll see what I mean when you look at it."

Ruth grasped the folder and then again stuck part of her face in the gap. "I can't let you in yet. You must understand it's nothing personal."

"I know that. I'll just ….. wait out here. I'd love a coffee, but I'll wait until you've perused the file. I'm not here to hurt you or …. anything. I'm just an assistant to a really twisted individual in the Home Office."

"That description could describe any one of a number of individuals who work there."

"Don't I know it."

Very gently – so as to not offend – Ruth closed and again locked the door, and then took the folder to the sofa next to where she'd left her coffee. Ruth opened the folder and read the first page. The document was hand written – notes from a meeting of the JIC just a few days after she'd been stabbed by Sasha Gavrik. It was all there – the who and the why. She had no need to read more. She closed the folder, stood and placed it on the dining table, then she headed through to the kitchen to boil the kettle. Then she returned to the front door, and this time she opened the door and asked Max Bellchambers inside.

"How can it be that you're just a dogsbody?" was the first question posed by Ruth.

"I … I dropped out of university after two years. Law just wasn't my thing, although after three years working in various dead end jobs, including my job in the Home Office, I'm rethinking my options. I rather like the idea of human rights law, but I'm not sure I'm bright enough."

"If you want it enough, you'll also be bright enough. Intelligence is just a state of mind, really."

Max smiled. He rather liked this woman whose reputation was so formidable. "You're interested in the notes from the meeting then?"

"Yes, although I'm not sure my companion will be pleased. Before I say anything else, I need you to tell me how you found us. We came here to be safe, and if an underling – sorry, but that's what you are – from the bowels of the Home Office can find us, then so can a lot of other people."

Max smiled a rather beautiful smile, and then pressed a finger against the top of his glasses, something Ruth had noticed he did often. Ruth thought that Jess Towers was rather a lucky girl. Max was not so much handsome as engaging, with a smile which would turn heads of women of all ages. "I'm in the enviable position of being at once the son of the owner of this property …. and I stayed here last summer while they began working on it. I carried bits of wood from one place to another, while the builders did the real work. And, being the boyfriend of the former Home Secretary's daughter sometimes has its advantages. I heard William in conversation with my dad, and he mentioned he had a couple of spooks who needed refuge for a few months. Then he said, `They're in a tiny bit of strife, and I don't want anyone to know where they are.' That was only the day after I heard my boss getting a drubbing from the current Home Secretary's PA about `bloody Harry Pearce'. It was too much of a coincidence to be a mere coincidence. I just had to follow it through. It was only a week ago that I was given this file to shred. Normally my boss does the shredding himself, but he was angry and wanted me to suffer along with him."

"And who is your boss?"

"Sorry, I thought I'd told you. I'm an assistant to Simon Lynch. He was the one who took the notes at the meeting of the JIC back in 2011."

Of course, Ruth had known Simon Lynch, but she wasn't about to play all her cards at once, not when she was on a fact-finding mission. All she had to do was listen, and perhaps Max would tell her everything she needed to know. She sipped her coffee and smiled across the table to where Max was quietly drumming his fingertips on the table top.

As she and this young man sat across the dining table from one another, each with a steaming cup of coffee in front of them, Ruth barely gave a thought to how Harry would react when he arrived home, and given how dark the sky was becoming, she expected him home rather soon. She didn't have long to wait.


	15. Chapter 15

Less than an hour after Max had first knocked on the front door of their converted farm house, Harry arrived home. "Ruth …. why is the front door unlocked?" he called out as he entered the house. Ruth gave Max a worried glance to find the younger man looking nervously towards the direction of Harry's voice.

"And who might you be?" Harry said once he had a clear view of the dining table. Ruth noticed how easily Harry had slipped into his section head persona. As he stood just inside the large living area, his shoulders appeared wider, his chest broader and his face dark with suppressed anger, his fingers moving compulsively as he held his hands by his side. He glanced quickly at Ruth. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice softer, gentler.

"Harry, this is Max Bellchambers. His parents own this house."

"I'm sorry …. sir," Max said, having stood clumsily and then stepped towards Harry, his hand stuck out in front of him, ready to shake Harry's hand.

For the moment Harry ignored him. This time he glared at Ruth. "Who is this …... Ruth?"

"It's my fault, Mr Pearce. I just turned up, hoping you wouldn't get …. mad at me. Don't blame ... your wife. I didn't know what else to do. I -"

"Ruth?"

Ruth smiled at him, hoping to convey to him that all was well and that no action was required. "I'm fine, Harry. This is Max. He has something to tell us."

Suddenly Harry deflated, once again becoming the gentle and reasonable man Ruth knew. "Sit down," he said to Max. "I need to ….. wash." Harry took the stairs two at a time, while Max and Ruth watched him disappear to the mezzanine floor.

Ruth waited until Max had returned to his seat at the table, and then pushed his glasses up his nose. "He'll be alright," Ruth assured him. "He just needs to get his breath back. We've been living ….. in fear that we'd be found while here ….. that's all. In a way your turning up here is our worst nightmare."

Suddenly Max realised the foolishness of having simply arriving their door expecting a warm welcome. "I shouldn't be here," he said, wiping his hand over his forehead and dislodging his glasses. "I just acted on impulse. My dad is always telling me I should count to ten before I do anything."

"Don't be silly. Harry will be alright once he realises who you are."

"I bloody hope so," Harry said, stealthily descending the last of the stairs. He stood behind Ruth and once again glared at the intruder.

Max stood and this time he made no attempt to shake Harry's hand. "My name is Max Bellchambers, and my parents own this house. My girlfriend is -"

"William Towers' daughter. Yes, I figured that out. Sit down. I won't bite." Harry sat in the chair next to Ruth so that they were both sitting opposite Max. Ruth smiled to herself. Harry loved a game, especially with other men. "But you should have warned us," he added.

"Actually, he couldn't," Ruth said quietly.

"I'm assuming he can speak for himself," Harry said, his eyes still on their visitor.

Ruth rose from her chair and moved into the kitchen area, in part to make Harry a cup of coffee, but also to step away from between the two men. As she left the table Max stood his ground, his eyes on the man watching him. In the kitchen Ruth allowed herself a smile. Harry often felt the need to compensate when faced with someone younger and much taller. She doubted he was even aware he did it.

"In order for my visit to be secret," Max said quietly and with a calm he didn't feel, "I had to tell no-one where I was going. I could hardly ask William for your phone numbers."

"So no-one knows you're here?"

"No-one. To cover my absence I told Charlie, my younger brother, that I was going away for a couple of days with another girl. He doesn't think much of Jess, so I knew he'd not tell anyone, especially Jess."

"Where does Jess think you are?"

Max shrugged in that way young people often do. "I imagine she thinks I'm still in London."

"And what if she attempts to visit you in London?"

"She won't. She's currently at her dad's place, mucking around with the horses. Besides, she hates my flat. It belongs to my parents. She calls it a prime example of bourgeois excess." He gave a lopsided grin. "She once told me she wouldn't be caught dead in it."

"But her father's property is alright with her?"

"Yeah. She makes an exception because of the horses. She's only twenty. She's still throwing around different ideologies, seeing which one fits her." Max looked up to see that Harry's face had softened as he watched Ruth return from the kitchen with a mug of coffee for him. A man who looks that way at a woman couldn't be all bad, but there was something about Harry Pearce which made Max Bellchambers' bowels turn to water. It was clear to him that the man's reputation had been earned.

"Thank you," Harry said, holding Ruth's eyes a little longer than necessary. Max wasn't to know that the long gazes between them had been practised and honed over years of working together. It was something they had done for a long time, something they both indulged in and enjoyed.

"I had to ask my dad about this house," Max continued. "I pretended I needed to get away for a couple of days, and if this place was empty I'd like to have the keys. Had he spoken to my brother about it, Charlie would have surmised I was planning to bring a girl here. That's when Dad told me that a couple of spooks of William's were staying here for a while. That's how I connected what I overheard William saying on the phone with what my father told me."

"William told your father we were spooks?" Harry asked, his voice again sharp.

"I heard him mention it, yes, although no names were mentioned."

"If your father were to tell anyone -"

"He won't," Max said with a confidence he didn't entirely feel. "He's not really into espionage. He doesn't really …. understand what it's all about. He much prefers the challenge of a run down property. For him, a neglected property in need of repair is like a blank canvas. He just has to leave his mark on it."

For the first time since she'd placed it on the table in front of him Harry gave his cup of coffee his attention. He lifted it to his lips and sipped.

"Any luck?" Ruth asked him.

"What? Oh …. no, not really. I caught two rather small whiting which I thought it best to throw back. Then it got too cold, and I ….." Harry allowed his shoulders to relax as he watched her. Ruth smiled and nodded. The words `I missed you' were implied. Very quietly she reached under the table with her hand and placed it on his knee. He smiled his appreciation. He'd hated being away from her.

"There's more," Max said quietly, his words interrupting the moment between his hosts. "Not only were your names featured on the meeting notes from 2011, but last week I ….. happened to come across something else."

"Harry doesn't know about the notes from the JIC meeting," Ruth explained to Max.

"You can keep that copy I gave you," Max said to Ruth. "I made a couple of copies, and I have them in a safe in my flat … just in case. What I gave you is the original …... the one I was meant to have shredded. In a nutshell it explains the reasons Ms Evershed had to be declared dead ….. to keep you, Mr Pearce -"

"Harry."

"Right ….. Harry. In rather a convoluted series of motions by members of the JIC it was decided that you were required to remain section head within the counter-terrorism department, hoping the business with the Russian mafia would have you taking risks which no-one else in MI5 was prepared to take. The job would be done, and you would be the – er -"

"Fall guy," Harry said. "I'd already surmised that."

"Around ten days ago I happened to find a series of memos on my boss's desk. Normally this kind of thing is communicated electronically, but the Home Secretary - Mr Meckering - is something of a technophobe. If a message is important, then he'll send a memo in hard copy. My boss – Simon Lynch -"

"Christ!" said Harry, and Ruth gently squeezed his knee.

"My boss left three hastily scribbled memos from Meckering under the mouse pad on his desk. I didn't go looking for them, mind you. I was searching for his diary, which he usually leaves on his desk. It is on these memos that the reasons for the Chinese talks are implied. The public reason is all the usual stuff – trade, cultural exchange, educational opportunities in the UK for talented Chinese undergraduates, you know the usual thing. These memos implied something somewhat ….. darker ….. and you are both named."

"Do you have copies?"

"Yes, but in my hurry, I left them in the safe in my flat. Of course they are copies, as I had to leave the originals where I found them."

"And?" Harry said impatiently, and again Ruth squeezed his knee gently.

Within the space of a couple of seconds Max looked down at his coffee, and then pressed one finger against the frame of his glasses to push them up his nose. Ruth found his hesitation endearing, while she suspected Harry was irritated and wanted him to just get on with it.

"I am assuming that Meckering doesn't know you have found one another and that you are together. The memos are ideas for getting you back to London …... Harry. I am aware that there will be demonstrations against the Chinese delegation being in London, and the security service will have to deal with that. Mr Meckering wants you there, and I can only imagine why."

"As can I. He'll have some dirty little job waiting for me."

"But it's how they are planning to lure you back which is worrying." Again Max paused, taking a sip of his coffee. "The first suggestion is that ….. with Ruth working in London she either be kidnapped, or word of her kidnap made public, because I am almost certain that these people have no idea that you are living in the UK. Their information is that you are still somewhere in China."

"Clearly that ploy won't work with me," Harry said.

"It's the other two suggestions about which I thought you should be forewarned."

"Please. I need to know this."

"There is a plan to kidnap your daughter and hold her until you come to London and play nice."

Through the hand she still kept on his knee Ruth could feel the tension in Harry's body. "But she's currently overseas," he said, his jaw tight.

"There are officers from Six who can grab her and drag her back here. That's not difficult for them to arrange."

"And the other option?"

"To kidnap your son or your ex-wife."

"That's a low blow," Harry said quietly. "My son had only just got his life together, and my former wife and I are not exactly close."

"There was another method mentioned, and I've left this until last because I believe it's the most likely course of action, given it will not involve MI6, and will not make Mace and Meckering and Co look like a bunch of arseholes …... sorry for my language, Ms Evershed."

Ruth smiled across the table at Max. "That's alright. I find that term rather ….. descriptive."

"Let me guess," Harry said. "They want to lock down the Grid, claim it's being compromised, and then wait until I turn up to sort it out."

"Something similar, yes. They will most likely somehow get a message to you – perhaps through Mr Holloway – that the acting section head is corrupt, or a double agent, or …... something, and then wait until you turn up. All I can say is that any news of _trouble_ at your former place of work is not to be taken at face value."

"You can't go back there under any circumstances, Harry. I don't like the sound of this. It sounds like an excuse for an execution."

Max again pushed his glasses up his nose. "My suspicion is that in the end you will be accused of arranging the demonstrations against the talks."

"So the demonstrations are to be an inside job," Harry said quietly.

"I suspect so. News of pending demonstrations has been confusing and contradictory, and that usually means that the details haven't yet been worked out. I ... and I don't yet have proof of this ... I think that Simon Lynch is in charge of organising a protest. They first have to find a way of getting you back to London. It's clear to me that they only want Ms Evershed in London in order to lure you back."

Harry sat back in his chair, both palms flat on the table top, and sighed heavily. Ruth gently rubbed her hand up and down the top of his thigh in a demonstration of support and love. "How long?" he said.

"How long? Until what? I don't understand."

"How long will they wait until they give up and go back to harassing each other?"

Max smiled. "I …. have no idea. I suspect they won't wait forever, and eventually will find another game to play. All I know is that this wouldn't be happening were William Towers still in office."

Harry nodded. "I have a request to make."

Max lifted his eyebrows and nodded.

"I want to give you a message for you to pass on to Will Holloway. I'll put it all on a USB flash drive, and get Ruth to encrypt it -"

"I can do that now if you wish," Ruth said, suddenly reaching out to grab her laptop, turning it towards her before waking it up.

"You're going home tonight?" Harry asked Max.

"No. I've booked a room in a B&B in Cromer. I'll go home in the morning. I have to be back at work the day after tomorrow."

"And the car you drove here?"

"It belongs to my dad. It's one of the company cars. I thought it best if it appears that I have a reason to be here. Checking the state of the house, or ….. something like that."

* * *

A little over an hour later Harry, Ruth and Max stood in the entrance hall. Harry had just handed Max a hundred pounds. "For your efforts and to go towards the petrol," he explained. Rather reverently, Ruth gave Max the encrypted USB stick. "Make sure Will gets it," Harry said. "You can figure out how to go about it, but be discreet. Everything you've told us today is on there. He just needs to encode it."

Ruth reached up to kiss Max's cheek and then stood aside while Harry accompanied him through the door and across the grass and out of Ruth's earshot.

Sunset was still two hours away, but the sky was heavy with dark clouds. As they crossed the patch of wild grass Harry spoke quickly and quietly and Max listened.

"Treat this with seriousness. For the next few days you are a spy, and I trust you to act like one. By coming here today not only have you helped to avert a disaster, but you are now an asset of mine. Do you understand?" Max nodded, not looking at Harry, chiefly because he was suddenly very, very afraid. "If you fuck this up, I don't know you, and have never heard of you, and if you betray us, I will kill you myself. Do you understand?"

They had reached the wooden gate, and just before he opened it to walk through, Max glanced quickly at Harry and nodded. "I won't let you down," he said. "I …. I believe in what I'm about to do. I can clearly see how you're being …. set up, and I'll not let that happen."

Harry smiled and reached out his hand for the younger man to shake, which he did before pressing a finger against his glasses before he turned and headed to his car which he left around the next bend in the lane. Harry watched him hurrying along the lane, hoping he and Ruth had made the right call in trusting this clean skin. Then he turned and crossed the grass to join Ruth in the doorway, where he put his arm around her and drew her close to his side. Ruth shivered, more with a release in tension than with the cold.

"You trust him, don't you, Harry?"

"I have to, and it's clear you do."

"I detected honesty. I can always smell a liar."

Harry drew her back through their front door before locking it and resetting the security system. "I hope you're right." He hesitated before he continued with a question. "So ….. what can you tell me about Simon Lynch?"


	16. Chapter 16

_**A/N : Thank you to those who are still staying with this fic, and as usual, thanks for the reviews.**_

* * *

Ruth and Harry stood side by side in the kitchen, preparing a simple dinner of steak and salad while they shared what they each knew of Simon Lynch. Harry listened without interrupting while Ruth told him what she knew.

"When I worked for Towers he was a …. small fish in a very big pond. I detected resentment from him, but then, I'm used to that."

"You shouldn't have to be used to that," Harry growled, halving cherry tomatoes with more ferocity than was required.

"I found him to be a …. rather ambitious, but limited man. That description fitted quite a few of the less able people working there at the time. I didn't take him seriously, but it's clear he takes himself quite seriously. At the time he was a …. lackey …. like Max is now. What do you know of him?"

"Until only seven or eight months ago I was unaware of his existence, but in recent months I saw him take every chance on offer to hover around Oliver Mace, clearly trying to breathe the same air as his hero. He strikes me as someone who would sell any and every member of his immediate family in order to achieve his own ends."

"Does he have a wife …. children?"

"I'm not sure. He was at a Home Office reception last year with an Asian woman - Chinese, perhaps Korean. I've no idea who she was."

"And …." Ruth hesitated before she continued. "Who were you with?"

Harry raised an eyebrow in Ruth's direction. "I was accompanied by other _men_ , Ruth, all of whom were security service operatives. I was there to work."

Harry noticed Ruth smiling to herself before she again spoke. "Do you know his …. exact role …. in the Home Office?" she asked.

Harry waited while he broke pieces of lettuce between his fingers and allowed them to fall into the salad bowl. "I doubt his title or his proper role has much meaning. I believe he's a second undersecretary to the Home Secretary, which in real term means he's a step above those in general admin."

"So there's potential for him to attain power."

"Not really," Harry said carefully. "He cannot move upwards without the approval of Meckering, and I suspect Dickie would prefer to keep him where he is, salivating at the possibility that he can one day ascend from the bottom rung of some imaginary ladder."

Ruth had served out the steak, and so she carried both plates while Harry carried the salad bowl and the opened bottle of wine through to the dining table. "One thing I can tell you for sure," he said, once they were both sitting at the table, "is that Simon Lynch hates my very existence."

"Why? What did you ever do to him?"

"I can only guess. It was Towers who pointed out to me that he wanted to be me. He envied me, and when I was decommissioned, and then faked my death he was thrilled. He thought he could – somehow – slide his way into counter-terrorism. When I turned up alive I suppose he felt cheated of his rightful career."

"That makes him a bit crazy, Harry."

"You know yourself that at least half of the security service are sociopaths. Simon Lynch has no conscience. He'll do whatever it takes to get whatever he wants."

* * *

By the time they'd cleaned up after dinner it was nine-thirty. Ruth announced she needed to put in at least another hour at her laptop, while Harry decided to shower, and then head to bed and read.

By the time Ruth made it to bed it was a little after eleven-thirty, and Harry was fast asleep, book open on his chest, his reading glasses still on his nose. She removed both, placing them on his bedside table, noting with surprise that his bedtime reading had been her copy of _Birdsong_ by Sebastian Faulks. She shuffled under the duvet and then turned out the light.

It was several hours later that she was drawn out of a deep sleep by Harry thrashing around in the bed beside her. Since the one nightmare she'd witnessed while they'd been living in Malcolm's cottage, Harry had had no more disturbed nights. She leaned against her pillow, watching him as he suffered inside some private hell. This time he didn't call out, and nor did he keen or cry. It was just his body which thrashed, while his head tossed from side to side on his pillow. After a little while he began to quietly – but desperately - utter the words, `No, no, no, no'. After a few minutes his movements became less intense, less frantic, and he eventually stilled. Only then did Ruth noticed tears rolling down Harry's cheeks.

Then very slowly his eyes opened, revealing a deep sadness. He gazed around the room until his eyes found her. Very slowly he lifted his hand from under the duvet and stroked her cheek with his knuckles. "You're here," he said quietly.

"Yes, I'm here," Ruth replied. "You were having a nightmare." He looked so sad, so lost that Ruth could not help herself. "Would you like me to hold you?" Harry nodded, and so they each rolled on to their sides and reached out under the covers to put their arms around each other. Ruth felt Harry's cheeks wet against her own as he placed his face beside hers. She waited a few minutes before she again spoke.

"Can you …. tell me about it?"

Harry took a few minutes to organise his thoughts. As he'd woken he'd been a jumble of emotions – love, terrifying fear, and grief – and it took him some time to decide how and where to begin. "I was …. trying to find you," he said at last, staring at the point where the wall met the ceiling. "You'd been …. kidnapped, and I was the only one who seemed to care about what might have happened to you, or …... where you were. I found you. You were in a warehouse, lying on the floor and you were gagged. I was about to …. touch you and then I was grabbed and I struggled and these voices told me I couldn't have you, and that my daughter and son and ex-wife had also been taken from me. Just before I woke I heard this voice, a voice which sounded a lot like Amish Mani, saying, `You don't deserve to have anyone love you, Harry.'" Harry sighed heavily, turning to look at Ruth. "That's when I woke, and I was so …... surprised to see you ….. and grateful."

"I'm not going anywhere," Ruth said.

"That's good. I'm glad to hear that. And I have no intention of letting you go anywhere, so you'll have to excuse me if I …..."

"Hover?"

"Yes. You've no idea what was going through my mind when I came home today to find a stranger sitting at our table with you. My first thought was that he was holding you hostage."

"Harry …. I can look after myself. I've been doing it for most of my life. I did it for years before I met you, and I have done it since meeting you. I know you want to protect me, but I have to …. be free to do things my way."

"I know."

Ruth reached up to kiss his cheek. "Let's get some more sleep." She turned away from him, instructing him to wrap himself along the curve of her back. When Harry reached his arm around her waist she grasped his hand in both of hers. For a time that would have to be enough. Who knew what the following days would bring?

* * *

Nothing changed until eight days later – a week before the Chinese talks were scheduled to begin. Ruth was sat at the dining table doing the last of the week's translating when she received an email from the Chinese embassy in London. It was brief ….. and to the point. "Harry …..." she called. "Could you come and take a look at this?"

Harry, who had been outside on the terrace absorbing the last of the sun's rays, wandered back in through the large doors, left open to allow the warm summer air to flow inside the house. When he reached the dining table, he sat in the chair beside Ruth's.

Ruth thought he looked like someone who was enjoying a holiday in the sun. Lucky him. She'd had to work to earn her living. "Read this," she said, turning her laptop towards him.

"It's …. a Dear Ruth email," he said, once he'd read the five brief lines.

"What do I do now?" she said. "I can hardly go out to work, not when we're meant to be hiding."

"For the time being," Harry began, choosing his words carefully, "I am able to support us both. In fact, I can easily support us both for the remainder of our lives, but I know you'll want to work ….. as soon as we are free to ….. be ourselves once more."

"You're damn right I do. I don't wish to be financially dependent on you, Harry."

"What I have is yours, Ruth. It is now and always will be."

"How would you feel were the roles to be reversed?"

Harry stared at her for a little too long. Ruth could almost see the synapses in his brain being overloaded with electrical impulses as he searched for an answer which would not lead them to an argument. "Were I to not have the money I have to live on, and were I …. disabled in some way, I would have to accept your generosity, Ruth."

"Very PC, Harry. Now tell me what you really think."

Again he waited, but this time he looked away while he formulated his answer. "I'd hate it," he said, looking back at her. "I'd hate myself were I to have to rely upon your income."

"Can't you see what a double standard that is?"

"Yes, of course I can, but I have worked for more years that you, and in a career which has provided me with an income which is more than I have needed. I don't want you to feel you _have_ to work."

"I work because I want to. I enjoy working. The money is a bonus."

"For the time being you can rely on me, Ruth. I enjoy it."

"Why? I've known men who wouldn't even buy me flowers because of the cost. Why are you so free and easy with your money?"

"I don't know. I just like …. sharing what I have with you. It feels like we're ….. married."

As suddenly as it had appeared Ruth's outrage abated. She reached across and pulled him to her for a quick kiss.

"What's that for?" he asked.

"For you being so …. you know."

"I don't."

"For being rather lovely. I keep expecting you to be like you were on the Grid …. to shut me out and tell me to go back to work, and then you go and say something like that." She kissed him again.

"Changing the subject," he said, once Ruth had turned from him and back to her laptop, "do you know what has triggered the decision to let you go?"

"No, and no matter how many times I ask, I will never know for sure. I suspect there is pressure from either the Home Office or the JIC, maybe both. They want me back in London, and I imagine they believe that is more likely to happen were I to find myself stuck in Asia without work."

"They're idiots!" Harry said, almost to himself.

"Who?"

"All of them. They underestimate you, and they underestimate me. If they want us they'll have to come and get us."

"Please don't wish for that, Harry. I'm quite happy here for the next month or so."

"As am I."

* * *

While Ruth and Harry were discussing who pays the bills, a meeting was occurring at a small pub in South London. Will Holloway had little idea who to look for when he met Max Bellchambers, while Max had heard Will described by a couple of girls who worked in the Home Office. "He's hot," said one, "He has wild hair," said another. "He's fit, but ... a bit on the short side," another girl had chipped in. Strangely, Max had an idea of what they'd meant, and had even formed a mental image which had turned out to be rather accurate. Once he saw Will enter the beer garden, Max stood and lifted his hand to attract Will's attention. Will slid into the seat opposite and greeted Max like an old friend.

"How's tricks?" Will said, placing his half pint on the table in front of him.

"I … I have something for you. It's from Harry Pearce."

"You've seen him?"

"Yes, a week ago."

"I guess you're not about to tell me where."

"No. I'm not."

"He's alright though?"

"He's ... he's fine."

"Right, so what have you got?"

"It's in this bowl of pork scratchings," Max said, pushing the bowl towards Will.

Will smiled broadly, diving his hand into the bowl and connecting with the USB drive. "You've been watching too many spy movies, my friend. Most people would slide it across the table to me." In his hand he drew out a few pork scratchings, and he palmed the USB drive as well.

"You've done this before I take it," Max commented.

"Yeah. I usually just slip it in the pocket of my jeans, but for your benefit I'll swallow it."

" _What_?" Max's voice was hoarse as he tried to not draw unwanted attention to them.

"Just kidding." Will offered a rare smile as he pocketed the USB drive and then rested his forearms on the table. "Tell me about Harry. I miss him."

Max was happy to share his story about meeting Harry Pearce, although he had to make a few changes, and be careful to not mention Ruth. After spending twenty minutes in the company of Will Holloway, Max Bellchambers thought that perhaps being a spy wouldn't be so bad. How hard could it be?


	17. Chapter 17

**_A/N : At this stage it looks like this fic will be 24 chapters long. (It may be more, but I will endeavour to exercise self-discipline)_**

* * *

Max Bellchambers felt rather proud of himself. Firstly he had not let on to anyone – other than Will Holloway – that he had sought out the legendary Harry Pearce. He had not told anyone of his trip to Norfolk. Even his father had shown no interest in where he had taken himself for two days, which was not of itself unusual. Ross Bellchambers had always been a distant and preoccupied father, interested only in his own life. Even Jess had not asked awkward questions, obsessed as she was by one of the mares at Blair Reid being in foal. Any attempt he had made to talk about anything other than Bold Lass's pregnancy had been met with sulky silence from Jess.

So it was with a private sense of adult achievement that Max left work three days after having passed the USB stick to Will Holloway. He had worked the late shift, and so it was that moment when dusk became night when he walked down the concrete steps to the tube station. The train ride to his own station was uneventful, allowing him to relive the meeting with Will Holloway, something of which he was inordinately proud, but was unable to share with anyone. He had respected Ruth's and Harry's request to not contact them again. Were Harry again to require his services then he would be the one doing the contacting.

Max took the usual short cut from the tube station, down a narrow alleyway which opened on to the street, the end of which was the luxury third floor flat belonging to his parents. He strode along the alleyway. He knew it like the palm of his hand – every loose paver, every wheelie bin, every -

Too late he saw a movement in his peripheral vision. He was about to turn when he felt a dull pain on the back of his head, and his legs collapsed from beneath him. He lost consciousness immediately. He felt no pain.

* * *

Harry woke to the sound of the ringtone of a mobile phone ….. _his_ mobile phone. He lifted his head, and then flopped back on his pillow. He should never have opened that extra bottle of wine, and a red at that. Still, the spontaneous sex he and Ruth had had when they were half way through the bottle had been worth the headache. They had flung off their clothes and coupled on the sofa, laughing when he almost rolled off on to the floor, taking her with him. His body felt loose and languid, and the last thing he wanted was to lift himself out of bed, but …. needs must. Harry slid out of bed and grabbing his dressing gown on the way, and pushing his feet into his slippers, he shuffled to where he'd dropped his trousers – just inside the bedroom doorway – and extracted his phone from a pocket.

"Yes?" he said tersely, gently closing the bedroom door behind him after kicking his trousers from the doorway with one foot.

"I just thought I'd let you know, Harry," Towers said, equally as tersely. "The Chinese talks have been brought forward to this weekend …. only three days away."

"That's …. that's good, I suppose."

"Yes, I thought so. The sooner they begin, the sooner you can go back to living a normal life."

"The Chinese embassy have let Ruth go. They no longer require her services."

"Oh, I know where that comes from. Pressure from the JIC. If they let her go, then the talks will turn out more favourably for China. And don't ask me to explain that, because I can't. It's no doubt a move by Meckering to pave the way for chaos. Bloody politics. I'm well out of it."

"I'm trying to convince her that it's a good thing, but she was enjoying the work."

"When this gab fest is over and the Chinese have gone home she'll be able to get work almost anywhere."

"That's what I've told her."

"There's one other thing," Towers said, his tone changing perceptibly, more serious than before. "Last night my daughter's boyfriend – young Max Bellchambers – was bashed and robbed on his way home from work. He's in hospital on life support. It's …. it's not looking good."

"That's …. that's terrible news." For the time being Harry held in his response. Towers was not to know that only a week earlier Max had visited he and Ruth.

"Yes. My daughter is beside herself, especially after their last conversation ended in an argument."

"Is he expected to …. pull through?"

"They're not saying, but it doesn't look good. His vital signs are … worrying. I'm heading to London later today to be with Jess. Harry ….."

"Yes?"

"I can't help wondering if the attack on Max was in some way connected to this Chinese visit. The idea won't leave me. He works for Simon Lynch at the Home Office, and from what Max tells me, Lynch is a hard liner, and supports Oliver Mace's torture policy. The only thing is, how did Max get himself caught up in this?"

By the time the conversation ended Harry was feeling unwell, his stomach roiling. He had managed to deflect Towers, acting surprised at every snippet of information Towers had shared, but he didn't feel good about it. He left his phone on the dining table and headed through to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. He wasn't quite ready for food. Through the window he could see that, despite it being July, summer in Norfolk had come to an abrupt end. The trees outside the wide window in the kitchen were bowing beneath a torrent of steady rain, and the sky beyond the border of trees was gun metal grey. Harry knew that he would feel better after a shower, but he didn't want to wake Ruth. She'd headed to bed soon after they'd made love on the sofa, while he had remained downstairs to finish off the wine alone before he'd made a desultory effort at tidying up after their meal. He wished he had gone to bed with Ruth.

As he sat at the dining table sipping tea, Harry's primary feeling was one of guilt, and he needed to talk to Ruth. She would know what to do, what to say to him to take away the gnawing sense that had Max Bellchambers not visited them, he would still be well enough to argue with his girlfriend. He also had a sense that Simon Lynch was somehow involved. For Max to have been randomly bashed and robbed was too much of a coincidence for Harry. _Someone_ knew that Max had gained access to information which was not meant for his eyes. Harry's instinct was to ring Will Holloway. He would have a better idea of what was going on in London, and how Max had been drawn into a web which for that clean skin had had potentially fatal consequences, but there was also the possibility that Will's phone was being monitored.

Harry sat over his tea, sipping slowly whilst becoming more and more despondent. He was just about to head upstairs to check whether Ruth was awake when he heard her coming down the stairs. "I never sleep this late," she said, standing behind him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "Why didn't you wake me?"

He turned towards her. She looked delightfully bedraggled, her hair uncombed, her face still flushed from sleep. "You needed to sleep," he said.

"What's wrong? Something is wrong. Tell me."

He couldn't keep the news from Ruth forever, so he told her about Max. Ruth's reaction to the news was to flop into the chair next to his, then to push herself against him, willing him to slide his arms around her. "I'm sorry," was all he was able to say. What else could he say?

"Why do these things happen to good people?" Ruth said, her face against Harry's shoulder. "It's just not fair."

No, it wasn't fair. Nothing was fair. Them having to hide away while a potentially deadly agreement was made between two nations wasn't fair. Not being able to see their family members wasn't fair. Having to hide behind legends for who knew how long wasn't fair, and the bashing of an innocent boy who just wanted to do the right thing was monumentally unfair. Harry held Ruth against him until she began to feel calmer, stronger. There was nothing more they could do.

* * *

Ross Bellchambers was in the middle of yet another pointless argument with his investment manager and sometimes lover, Meilin Peng, and he was tired and upset, and Meilin simply would not stop. She may have been the reason his business venture had sailed through the Global Financial Crisis, her Chinese contacts providing the necessary funds to not only keep him afloat, but to help his business expand, but she could also be hard nosed and insensitive. Meilin had been educated in the UK, spoke with an educated British accent, but could – on a whim – flip back into some Chinese dialect or other, throwing insults at him, refusing to listen to anything he said. His wife, Julie, thought Meilin to have a screw loose, and maybe she was right.

They were in the flat owned by he and Julie, the one they had bought almost twenty years ago, long before Meilin had appeared on the scene, her business degree fresh, her enthusiasm high, ideas bursting from her like so many firecrackers. She only stayed over at the flat when Julie was away, and now that Julie had refused to leave their son's side, Meilin had landed on his doorstep, demanding to stay the night. "Are you out of your mind?" he'd said, and the argument had begun, and over an hour later, it had escalated into name calling and threats – mostly from Meilin.

"Just get out, Meilin," Ross said at last. "If you don't, I have the police on speed dial."

"You wouldn't dare," she said. "You haven't the balls."

"Try me," he replied, and to his relief, Meilin strutted across the wide parquet hallway to the front door.

"I know more than you think I know," she said acidly, turning to face him before she opened the door. "I know who it was tried to kill Max." And then she left, slamming the large oak door behind her.

Ross stood in the middle of the living room, allowing her words to sink in. In his heart of hearts, he knew that Meilin had been the one to send someone to follow Max home that night. He had always wondered did she have connections with the Chinese mafia. Some deep gut feeling told him that she was very, very bad news. It's just that she was a financial wiz, and she was very inventive in bed, both skills from which he had benefited for a little over eight years. Ross knew that it was time to cut her loose and to take charge of his business himself.

* * *

Two nights later was the evening before the Chinese trade talks were to begin. Harry and Ruth had both accepted that there was nothing they could do to change things. What would be would be. They were sitting on the sofa together, listening to the rain outside, a bottle of white wine open but untouched on the coffee table in front of them, BBC News on the TV with the sound muted, when Harry's safe phone rang. It had to be either Malcolm or Towers.

"Any bets who this is?" he asked Ruth as he got up and crossed the floor to the dining table where both their phones sat. Ruth shook her head and smiled, and he answered in the usual way. "David Valentine," he said.

Ruth watched him while he listened, attempting to guess both the caller and the reason for the call. Harry took a seat across from the coffee table as he continued to listen. "Yes, I'll tell her," he said soberly. "She'll …. need to know." The call had taken no longer than three minutes. "That was Malcolm," he said, getting up from the chair to join Ruth once more on the sofa.

As soon as Harry reached out with his hand and grasped her hand in his, Ruth knew that something awful had happened. "Tell me," she said. "Just tell me."

"This morning at eight o'clock Max Bellchambers' life support was switched off. He died an hour ago. His parents, brother and girlfriend were with him at his bedside." Not knowing what else to do, Harry reached out for Ruth and pulled her against him. Both were too stunned to cry, but in that moment they each really needed the other.


	18. Chapter 18

"Malcolm has suggested I ring him in the morning, after we've …. swallowed the news of Max's death. There is quite a lot ….. going on at present."

They were sitting at the dining table over a pot of tea, the wine having been corked and placed back in the refrigerator. It had taken them almost an hour before they felt able to talk.

"Is it our fault, Harry?"

"I'm sure we can find a way for us to be responsible for what has happened to Max, but what he did he did from his own free will, and we were not the ones to have delivered the blow which eventually killed him."

"That sounds like you're trying to talk your way out of it," Ruth replied.

They sat in adjacent chairs, rather than across the table from one another. "Whichever way we look at it, Ruth, we can't change what's already happened."

"Is that all a life is worth?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is it just about everyone standing back and saying it wasn't their fault?"

"Ruth," Harry said, turning to face her, "everyone who has ever met Max has had a part in his life and then his death. His father loaned him a company car for him to drive here. Does that make his father culpable?"

"No, of course not."

"He was a man, Ruth, and he was a good man, but he must have upset some rather powerful people."

Suddenly Ruth sat up straight, like she had had a fresh thought. "I no longer have work to do, but I can still …."

"Dig around?"

Ruth nodded, smiling up at him, her sad eyes now full of life. "I want to find out a few things about his father's business. I'm not sure it's as legit as we've been led to believe."

* * *

Oliver Mace was in a mood. It was early on Friday morning, with the trade talks due to begin at ten – three hours away. The news of the boy from the Home Office dying was sad, but people die all the time, and as Oliver saw it, so long as he was alive at the end of the day, none of the rest mattered. Still, Richard Meckering had sent a stern demand that he meet him in his office at eight o'clock. Clearly something was up, and Oliver suspected that the trade talks had been in some way threatened.

* * *

When Harry awoke he was surprised to see the bed empty beside him. It was a rare morning that Ruth made it out of bed before him. As he sat up in bed he remembered the news from the evening before, and a wave of despondency washed over him. For a moment he rested his face in his hands, again feeling saddened and guilty, but mostly angry. Max had been a fine young man, and his death had been a waste. Harry swung his legs out of bed and headed straight to the shower.

Once he was dressed he went downstairs to find Ruth sitting at the dining table eating a breakfast of muesli and yoghurt. In front of her was a mug of coffee half drunk. Through the window he could see that outside it was drizzling and the sky was still grey. Looking back at Ruth, his heart lifted to see her smiling up at him, so he stepped towards her to give her a kiss good morning. "We must never forget to do this," she said.

"Do what?"

"Kiss good morning and then goodnight. Even if we've had an argument, nothing is more important than a loving greeting."

Harry kissed her again, this time with a hint of passion. "You're right, of course. How come you're up so early?"

"I was close to something last night, but was too tired to pursue it, so I got up at six and …... Harry, I found something, something which I think helps …. pull all the threads of this together. But you need to eat first."

Of course he did. Ruth always made him wait, and the more significant the find, the longer he had to wait. Harry headed into the kitchen to make himself a coffee and two slices of toast. "Toast, Ruth?" he called to her, and she asked for two slices for herself.

"And honey," she added. "I feel like honey."

"Perhaps I should ring Malcolm," Harry said as he carried his coffee and the toast through to the dining area.

"Not until I've told you what I found. Malcolm will want to know. Had Max not visited us, and had he not …. died …. I would not have thought to pursue the threads which have led me to what I've discovered."

"I'm listening, Ruth," Harry said as he chomped into his buttered toast. He preferred toast with butter only. Any other topping, such as jam or honey of peanut butter, was unnecessary in his opinion. Of course, in an ideal world he would much rather a cooked breakfast – bacon, eggs, perhaps a sausage or two, all with toast. Ruth had only recently commented on how he was slimming down, and so for the time being her opinion of how he looked mattered to him more than his need to eat a fatty breakfast, even if it was high in protein.

Ruth smiled across the table at him, taking in the spare breakfast he was eating, knowing that he was trying to impress her. "I ….. pursued a line of inquiry which assumed that the business of Max Bellchambers' parents is somehow connected to the Chinese talks, and that maybe Max had unwittingly stumbled upon something even he didn't understand. First of all I discovered that Ross Bellchambers' financial ... investment manager is a woman called Meilin Peng – born Meilin Mary Ashton in August of 1981 to an Englishwoman and a Chinese man. Her mother had travelled extensively in China and met Meilin's father in Beijing in 1980. She still had regular contact with him – until his death, but I'll say more about that later. There are two pieces of information emanating from this connection – the connection of Meilin Peng."

"I still don't see how she's a connection, Ruth."

"Patience, my love. All will be revealled."

Harry rather enjoyed Ruth's theatrical exposition of important facts. She enjoyed this kind of work, and by rights she should still be doing it for a living. Her nose for following the correct line of inquiry was second to none. Harry got up from the table to make them each a fresh cup of coffee. When he returned Ruth continued with her findings.

"I began by pursuing the home address of Meilin Peng. To cut a long story short, she and Simon Lynch live together – in a one bedroom apartment in Wimbledon."

"They might be friends, and he sleeps on the couch."

"They might, but I doubt it. You mentioned Simon was accompanied by an Asian woman to a Home Office reception last year."

"Yes …. he was. I suppose that must have been her. Do you know for how long they've been living together?"

"The Wimbledon apartment is owned by Peng, and they have both lived there for almost three years. Prior to that they were co-tenants on a one bedroom flat in Lewisham. They lived there for a year. Prior to that they lived separately – he in Wembley and she in Richmond. So …. according to their housing history they have been …. partners for at least three years, perhaps longer. There is also evidence that Meilin may have been having quite a long term affair with Ross Bellchambers."

"Is that all?" Harry said, piecing it all together, but coming up with nothing direct to connect Meilin Peng to the Chinese talks.

"No. There's one more important piece of information. By the time I turned in last night I was almost sure that Meilin Peng's father was in some way connected to these trade talks. I went to bed when my search led me to his death ….. just over three years ago. It was with her inheritance from her father that Meilin was able to buy her flat. Bo Zheng was a successful businessman who had to set up most of his businesses in the West. He had occasionally worked in an advisory capacity to members of the Chinese Ministry of Commerce. For a time his opinion, as well as his …. apparent understanding of European culture meant his advice was valued. However, he also had a …. predilection for seducing the wives of powerful men …. those in government. I found a photograph of him online. He was rather attractive." When Harry lifted his eyebrows at her comment, Ruth dropped her own eyes, embarrassed that she had mentioned what she'd thought of Bo Zheng's appearance. She hurried on, hoping to distract him. "There was more, but it seems that his success – as an independent operator in the West, as well as with the ladies – was frowned upon. He disappeared in March of 2011 while on a night out in Beijing. Three weeks later his body was washed up on the banks of the Yongding River. His death just may be the reason his daughter is either supporting the trade talks which are due to begin today, or - what I think is more likely - she is part of a plan to upset the talks …. perhaps to sabotage them."

"Why would she do that?" Harry frowned, his eyebrows knitting.

"Given that she has been the person responsible for acquiring Chinese money to back the business of Ross Bellchambers, it seems unlikely she'd want to be seen upsetting anyone connected to China." Ruth took a sip of her coffee. "However, were Ross Bellchambers be about to sack her, perhaps she is the kind of woman to retaliate harshly. His business boomed during the GFC, but during the last couple of years it has ... reached a plateau. There is no reason for him to continue employing her."

"And if Meilin suspects she is about to be out of a job, she'll immediately be wanting to cut off Bellchambers' supply of money from the Chinese."

"So … the trade talks are being sabotaged from outside?"

"No. I think that the actual sabotaging is being done from within the Home Office, and they wanted you in London so that when it all went to hell, you would be the one blamed."

"Do I have a sign on my back saying, `Kick me'?"

Ruth smiled at Harry, suddenly aware of how vulnerable he really was. "It appears that way, which is one reason you must not go back to London - for any reason at all - until it's safe. With members of Section D assigned to the security during the talks, combined with the reduced manpower of the section, it would be rather easy to sabotage the talks through the security alone. It's to be hoped that Max got the information to Will in time for Tom Quinn's company to be hired to provide extra security." Harry nodded, and then smiled widely at her. "What?" she asked.

"Have I ever told you how proud I am of you?" he said, his voice low, his eyes holding hers.

Ruth had no idea how she should reply to that, so she shook her head and smiled back.

* * *

"So," Meckering's voice boomed from the doorway, "what the fuck is going on, Oliver? I left you to sort out the security details for these talks, and at six this morning I had a phone call from Tom fucking Quinn, asking me to provide he and his four operatives with security passes to the Chinese embassy. Please explain!" Oliver Mace stood up as the Home Secretary entered his office. That was his second mistake for the day. Oliver was a tall man, but Richard Meckering was taller by around four inches, and he was a big man to boot. "Sit down, Oliver. You and I need to talk."

Oliver sat back down, swallowing uncomfortably. It was at times like this that he hated the Home Secretary. He was a bully as well as a silver tongued, smooth operator.

"And you assured me that young Holloway would be available during these talks, but now I'm told he's disappeared off the face of the planet."

"I can't guarantee the movements of the field operatives, Richard. You must be aware -"

"And that isn't even the worst thing to have happened."

"We have no idea of the whereabouts of either Harry Pearce or -

"His bit of skirt is in China or Hong Kong. We instructed the Chinese embassy that it would benefit the talks were she free to return to the UK, but she hasn't replied to our emails. If she expects to be granted a return visa to the UK she can whistle." Meckering took a moment to organise the items on his desk. "But that still isn't the worst thing. Do you have any idea what the worst thing is? Do you, Oliver?"

Oliver shook his head. The power of speech had left him, and he really had no wish to learn what this `worst thing' was. Suddenly, he _really_ needed to use the toilet.


	19. Chapter 19

_**A/N : Thank you to those of you who are still with this, and especially to those who have taken time to leave reviews. This story is now (officially, since I have now written it and put `Fin' at the end) 25 chapters long.** _

* * *

Just before eight on the morning after Max Bellchambers had died, Meilin Peng sat over her computer in her office of The Bellchambers Group, keeping one eye on the TV in the corner of her office. Because of Max's death only she and Melody, the receptionist were at work. Julie had popped in briefly, but Meilin had managed to avoid her by choosing that moment to head to the toilet to touch up her makeup, staying there until she heard the front door close. She and Julie had never been on good terms. Every twenty minutes or so the rolling news service would cover the demonstration outside the Chinese embassy. Only around twenty people had turned up, mostly paid demonstrators, and they just stood there holding placards saying things like `British jobs for British workers', which had nothing at all to do with the trade talks, but no-one seemed to care, and the general public paid them little attention. So much for leaving the details to Simon. He always hated it when she took charge, but were she to leave the details up to him, well …. it didn't bear thinking about.

After work the evening before, Meilin had taken advantage of the confusion and grief surrounding the death of Ross' and Julie's older son to visit the kitchen in the basement of the Chinese embassy. It had been easy enough to carry a fake ID, and to enter the embassy through one of the service entries, where she was met by Dai Feng, assistant to the head chef. She had palmed him the eye drops and instructed him to put them in the Chinese tea which was to be served only to the ten visitors from China. He was to take the bottle and its remaining contents with him when he left work that night, and destroy it.

Meilin sat at her desk, waiting for news that the trade talks had had to be interrupted, which she was sure they would be. Any minute now

* * *

It was a little after nine o'clock on the morning of the first day of the Chinese talks when Ruth suggested to Harry that he ask Malcolm to investigate the financial activities of Ross Bellchambers, Meilin Peng and Simon Lynch.

"I haven't the means to do it, Harry. Were I to try I could be traced, but Malcolm has all the protections that I don't." Ruth had only just finished speaking when Harry's phone rang from where he'd left it on the dining table. "Go," she said. "answer that, It might be important. I can finish cleaning up."

Ruth washed the dishes as quietly as she could, watching Harry's face as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the phone. Her bet was that it was Malcolm, and by the look of concentration on Harry's face, something of a serious nature had occurred.

"What is it?" she asked, heading into the dining area once Harry had ended the call. "Your face is carrying your Grid expression."

Harry smiled slightly at her words. "My Grid expression, as you call it, was for the express purpose of giving nothing at all away."

"Exactly."

"Sit down," he said. "I'll make us a pot of tea."

Ruth was enjoying this relaxed Harry. He would reach for the English Breakfast rather than the Ardberg. He would talk to her, rather than shutting her out, or even worse, sending her in to do a job for which she was barely trained. He trusted her completely, and by extension, she was learning to trust him. It was taking her a little longer to trust him, but that had more to do with her history than it had with Harry himself. Very slowly but surely Harry was beginning to open himself to her. Each day brought with it some new revelation or other. Only the night before he had begun to tell her a little about his children. He'd seemed hesitant, even a little embarrassed, but she was in no position to judge. As she saw him, Harry had only ever tried his best.

When apart she and Harry each struggled, while together they were more effective than the combination of their separate selves. They had only just begun talking about what it was had drawn them together, and which still drew them together, and the deeper that discussion delved, the more elusive the answer became. It was something more than love, more than animal attraction, something much deeper and richer than lust. It was a need almost as strong as the need to eat, to sleep, to reproduce. They were no more two halves of a whole than they were completely autonomous on their own, but they were more effective together than they had ever been while apart. Polar opposites was the best description they had so far.

"I think that we have had to spend long years apart," Ruth had said when last they'd discussed the topic. "We have had to do that in order to appreciate the other."

"But being apart for so long has made being together difficult," Harry had countered.

"And nothing worth having ever comes easily. We will always have to work hard at staying together, but it will be worth it."

He had watched her carefully and then nodded slightly. "I just hope you're right."

"When have I not been right?"

Ruth noticed a slight smile turn his lips. "I can't think of too many times, Ruth."

She was smiling at the memory of that conversation when Harry brought the tea through to the dining area, placing the tray in the middle of the table. He poured a cup for each of them, and added the right amount of sugar and milk.

"You're rather good at this," she commented.

"You sound surprised."

"I … I hadn't expected it, that's all."

"I haven't lived on whiskey and crisps for the past three years and more. I can cook a little, and even if I do say so myself, I make a rather magnificent cup of tea."

"Magnificent? I've never heard that adjective applied to tea."

"Well, now you have."

Sitting on opposite sides of the dining table they each sipped their tea. Ruth knew that prompting Harry would only irritate him. He knew why they were there, and he would choose his moment to speak. Which he did.

* * *

While Harry launched into telling Ruth about the phone conversation he had just had with Malcolm, the man in question was back online following the financial trails between The Bellchambers Group and certain Chinese connections. Not that it mattered much now, with the Chinese talks postponed indefinitely, and the five Chinese trade and cultural delegates and their wives all hospitalised, perhaps for two to three days, all with symptoms of food poisoning. The spokespeople for the Chinese delegation had expressed `regret' and `surprise' that the delegates had not been safe in this `generous nation'. Given the others who dined at the embassy the night before had come away symptom free, it was clear to Malcolm that someone had sabotaged the talks, and he quite wanted to know who and why.

Malcolm's first phone call had been to Tom Quinn, who had told him that Quinn Security had been able to provide protection for the ten people in hospital. Tom had three of his best each doing eight hour shifts guarding the only entrance to the ward in which the members of the Chinese delegation were recovering. Given the specific nature of his task, Tom could offer Malcolm no more, so Malcolm knew it would be up to him to unravel the mess, even if only so all interested parties could apportion blame in the right direction.

Malcolm had been able to share with Harry that he had found the account to which Meilin Peng had been siphoning funds from the Bellchambers investment accounts. The theft had begun slowly only two years earlier, but during the past three months had become dramatically more daring and blatant. It did not surprise him at all to discover that Meilin Mary Ashton, who had adopted the name Peng as a business name, had only that morning bought an airline ticket to Beijing on China Eastern Airlines, scheduled to leave at 5 pm that afternoon. He could call it in, but without proof other than what he had gleaned from an illegal online search he was unlikely to come out of it well. And whom should he tell? He knew that MI5 was currently understaffed and perhaps little more than a tool of corrupt officials such as Mace, and so that only left the likes of the Home Secretary, whom Malcolm didn't trust, or the Metropolitan Police, who would demand to know how he knew what he knew. He could always contact Ross Bellchambers, but the man had only just lost one of his children, and would be in no fit state to deal with his financial problems. In part, Malcolm's call to Harry had been out of a need to share what he knew with someone who would care about it.

Malcolm's next search was into the affairs of Simon Lynch, and this was when things became _really_ interesting.

* * *

Malcolm's news of the trade and cultural talks being abandoned had left Ruth and Harry feeling relaxed enough to plan a couple of days away from their Cromer house. It had begun when Ruth had suggested they go for a long drive, and Harry had suggested they stay somewhere overnight.

"I'm thinking that we should combine the outing with a search for somewhere to live …. permanently," Harry said, watching Ruth's face for any adverse reaction.

"Harry ….. we haven't even ….. discussed this. We haven't even discussed a future …. together."

"I'm not keen on returning to London to live, and the alternative is to drift from one place to another. I know how important a home is to a woman."

They were sitting over their second pot of tea, also made by Harry, and this time accompanied by biscuits. Harry's last sentence had Ruth lifting her eyebrows. Ruth fiddled with her teaspoon while she thought about how best to reply to a comment such as that.

"I suppose," she said at last, not able to look up at Harry, whose facial expression had gone from gentle and hopeful to the one he used when he was expecting bad news. "I suppose I haven't a lot of faith in long term plans and outcomes. For much of my life my long term hopes and dreams have been ….. thwarted by ….. unforeseen circumstances." She was unable to continue. She suddenly felt very sad.

Seeing her distress Harry thought of getting up and sitting next to her so that he could comfort her. It was just that he wanted to get an OK from her. He wanted them to have a home they could call their own. As he saw it, all the rest would then follow. "Then …. I can offer you something permanent, Ruth. Where do you think we might live? I'll be happy so long as you are with me."

Harry's words, spoken with conviction, immediately lifted Ruth's mood. "Well …... I wouldn't want to live here forever. It's a little too cold for me. What about somewhere around where we were at Malcolm's cottage? I could look online."

* * *

After work that afternoon, Simon Lynch did two things. He had been flat out all day in an attempt to cover his tracks. He had spent the day half expecting to get a call from either the police or Mr Mace, but neither had eventuated, so by five in the afternoon he was feeling quite optimistic. As he walked down the corridor which led away from his office and to the lifts he tried to ring Meilin, but the call rang out. He then tried her number at The Bellchambers Group, but Melody answered to say that Meilin had left the office for the day.

"Do you know where she is?" he asked, irritated.

"It's not my job to keep tabs on staff," she said, and Simon had angrily ended the call.

The second thing he did left him even angrier, and confused. On his way to the tube station he stopped at a cash point to withdraw a couple of hundred pounds. He was in the mood for a celebration. When the notification `insufficient funds' came up on the screen he felt his stomach plummet. He should have had close to two thousand pounds in that account, although he'd had a little over six thousand until Meilin had managed to guilt trip him into lending her four thousand, for what he couldn't even remember, but she'd whined and shouted, and then promised to pay it back when next she lifted a few grand from the Bellchambers' investment account. The woman had no morals at all, which was one of the things he admired in her. He tried his everyday account, which he knew had around four hundred, but the same thing happened. The signs were not good, and they were all pointing to one person.

* * *

The following day Harry and Ruth set off to look at cottages. The only electronic contact they took with them was their phones, plus a tablet on which Ruth could browse through the real estate for sale. They both agreed that the continuing chicanery in London was no longer any of their business. Next morning, as they drove away from the Cromer cottage, in London Simon Lynch was being questioned by the Metropolitan Police.


	20. Chapter 20

To the eternal disgust of Simon Lynch he was questioned for over six hours by a detective by the name of Samantha Yu, a Chinese British woman. She reminded him a little of Meilin – tall, slim, shoulder-length straight dark hair, her British genes only evident in the roundness of her eyes, and the squareness of her jaw. Worse, it was clear that Ms Yu held only contempt for him, and while he knew he'd earned her contempt, he couldn't help but wonder if, in her private life, Ms Yu was fucking over some poor shmuck of a British boyfriend. First there was the money which Meilin had `borrowed' from him only last month, and then there was the money missing from his bank accounts, plus the investigation into the poisoning of the ten people of the trade delegation. He was in the firing line, and yet all he'd ever done was sleep with Meilin, take her to Home Office shindigs, introduce her to people of influence, and she had walked all over him, leaving him to take the rap for it all. He could argue his way from there to Beijing and back, and Ms Yu would talk him down, confusing him, tying his mind in knots. He knew he wasn't the smartest cookie in the cookie jar, but he'd believed he had enough smarts to outrun people like Meilin, as well as the Metropolitan Police. As Simon saw it, he was screwed.

"We have ….. printouts of your financial transactions for the last three months," Samantha Yu said, instantly changing the direction of the interview. "Would you like a break for ten minutes before I begin?"

Like a break? Of course he'd like a break, but that would be ten minutes in which he'd panic about what the police had on him, so he shook his head.

"For the record, Mr Lynch shook his head," Samantha Yu said, looking directly at him in the same way Meilin had of looking at him, through him, down at him.

"But before we examine your financial transactions, I need you to know that your fingerprints were found on a bottle of eye drops which police found in a bin outside the Chinese embassy. On the bottle were not only your fingerprints, but the fingerprints of the assistant to the head chef at the Chinese embassy. What do you have to say to that, Mr Lynch?"

 _Eye drops? What the fuck is all this about eye drops?_ "I have no idea what you're talking about," was all he could say.

Almost six hours later Simon Lynch was prepared to confess to anything – rape, murder, the abduction of little Prince George, anything. He was sent to a cell to rest, and seventeen hours after that he was let go. He left the police station with his head spinning. _What the fuck had just happened, and where was Meilin?_ All he'd done was arrange a few things in the background – nothing too dramatic, nothing more than the likes of Oliver Mace organised on a daily basis.

* * *

After they had inspected – from the outside only – six different cottages for sale in the area between Woodbridge and the turnoff to Felixstowe, they headed back to Felixstowe, where Ruth had managed to blag her way into a B&B just outside the town, and not all that far from Malcolm's cottage. There they left their overnight things and headed back into town for some real fish and chips for dinner.

"What do you really think, Ruth?" Harry asked as they walked to the pub for a proper drink before they went back to the B&B.

"About what?"

"About the properties we saw today."

"They were all …. nice in their own way, but I suppose I'm looking for …. something else."

"Something like the cottage you lost three years ago."

Ruth stopped in the middle of the pavement, and stared at Harry. "What makes you say that?"

"I saw the wistful look in your eyes. I know how much that cottage meant to you, and its symbolism for you and me – us. If I understand you correctly, you planned to buy it for yourself, and then decided that you were buying it for us both. And now it's gone."

Ruth dropped her head so that he couldn't see her eyes, and she turned and kept walking. Harry had to almost run to catch up with her. They didn't speak again until they were inside the pub, sitting at a table by the window. Harry had bought a white wine for her and a single malt for himself. There had been no need to discuss that. They sat over their drinks in silence while Harry waited for her to speak. As he saw it, he had already said enough.

"I'm sorry," Ruth said at last, running the tips of her fingers around the base of her wine glass. "I haven't been meaning to shut you out, especially since I've accused you so many times of doing that very thing." She quickly looked up to see Harry watching her closely, so she quickly dropped her eyes. "It's just that what you said about the house I lost when I was …. injured and then had to leave England ….. it touched a nerve." Again she looked up at Harry, and still he was watching her. "I …. suppose that our finding a house we both want is a …. symbol of where we've been together and how we've been torn apart before, and how easily and quickly that can happen." There. She'd said it. Her greatest fear.

"I know. It's something which also worries me more than it should.." Harry's eyes stayed on her. He knew that it would take so much more than a hug or kiss to make the fear go away. "Ruth ….. I won't insult your intelligence by assuring you that you won't lose this cottage we are about to buy …. at least, when we find the one we want. But nor do I think we shouldn't try to find what we want out of fear that we'll somehow lose it. It's not in my nature, and nor is it in yours to give up before we've tried something. I think ….. that when we find the right one, and that might not be tomorrow or even next week or next month, but when we find the cottage which is to be ours we'll know, and we will want it so much that it won't matter that we're afraid that it will be taken from us."

Harry wasn't sure that his little speech had made any sense to Ruth. He wasn't even sure he understood it himself, but he'd had to try. Ruth's reluctance to get on with her life, and her fear that they wouldn't be able to create a normal life for themselves worried him …. a lot. "I have even organised my finances so that we can buy it in the names of our legends. That way only two other people know that we are not really Emma and David Valentine."

As he'd been speaking Ruth had been listening carefully, all the time fiddling with the wedding ring she wore. Suddenly Harry's safe phone rang, interrupting them at (almost) the worst possible time. Pulling the phone from his pocket Harry checked the display and made a face. "It's William Towers," he said quietly.

"You'd better answer it then," Ruth replied. "It might be important."

" _This_ is important," Harry emphasised.

"We can continue this conversation afterwards. Answer it. With any luck Oliver Mace is dead."

"We could never be that lucky, Ruth," he said before he opened his phone and answered. "David Valentine."

"I have good news at last," William Towers said jauntily. "I rang your man, Wynn-Jones, and it seems he's been following some money trail or other, but more of that later. A couple of people have been arrested for conspiracy against the government …... I love that phrase …. it sounds far worse than it really is. It seems that an undersecretary in the Home Office had been conspiring with a lowly chef at the Chinese Embassy to bring down these talks."

"Who are we talking about, William?"

"What do you mean?"

"Who are these people? Do they have names?"

"Yes, yes, yes, of course. Let me see …." Harry could hear the rustle of paper as Towers took a moment to consult his notes.. "The person in the Home Office is Simon Lynch, and he is claiming innocence. The other person – the chef – is Dai Feng, who has been living in the UK for three years, and so far he is not commenting. They are both in a police lockup."

"There's a Chinese British woman whose involvement in this is ….. fundamental," Harry replied. "Has there been mention of Meilin Peng?"

"Well yes. Young Lynch is blaming her, and saying it was all her idea, which indicates I think that he knows more than he's admitting. The financial trail appears to begin with a bank account he opened a year ago. Money has been fed into that account to pay a number of Chinese officials in the embassy. He claims to have no knowledge of such an account."

"They need to check out Meilin Peng," Harry said. "I believe this whole debacle has been her ….. brain child."

They shared a few niceties – inquiries about the other and their families – and then Harry ended the call. He turned to Ruth, who had been listening to his end of the conversation. "So who is it taking the rap for Meilin Peng?" Ruth asked.

"I believe she set up Simon Lynch. She seems to have already left the country." Ruth sighed heavily, and then looked down at her glass which was almost empty. "One more for the road?" Harry asked.

This time Ruth smiled into Harry's eyes. "Even though the road is only a mile or so long, yes …. I think I need another."

When Harry returned to their table with a second drink for them each, he sipped his drink slowly, knowing that Ruth still had something to say.

"You know, as much as I should, I don't much care about the Chinese trade talks. They will happen on another day, another year, perhaps in another decade, but ….. I _do_ really care about who it was killed Max, although I suspect someone was paid to do it, and they're hardly likely to talk, even if they're found."

Harry nodded. He realised then that Ruth was more invested in finding Max's killer than she was in uncovering any conspiracy from within the government. Ruth was able to detect Harry's disinterest, and as angry as she once would have been by it, she understood. It was not their place to uncover every single threat to the British public, especially since they no longer worked for the security service.

"After we finish this," Harry said, bringing them back to the moment and the place, "we need to head back to the B&B. After an early night, we still have a few places to check out tomorrow."

Of course they had. That was the reason they were there after all.

* * *

Later that night, while Harry and Ruth slept, Malcolm Wynn-Jones, at the specific request of the current Home Secretary, was examining the financial details of The Bellchambers Group. He was aware that Mr and Mrs Bellchambers were still on compassionate leave from their business, and with Meilin Peng out of the country, the financial records would be relatively easy to access. What he found had him making a call to the Home Secretary in his office at a few minutes after midnight. Richard Meckering answered on the second ring.

"I have found quite a bit of … activity to and from one particular account, Home Secretary," Malcolm said, after he had identified himself. "The name of the account is Investment Account 45A."

"Who numbers their investment accounts like that?" Meckering answered, his voice low and scratchy, probably from fatigue.

"I … can't possibly answer that. It appears that the only people who have access to the account are Ms Peng and Mr Bellchambers, and that transactions can be completed by `one of two', which is ….. not a terribly wise business decision."

"Maybe Bellchambers trusted her."

"Clearly, and it would seem she was the one to access the account on at least a weekly basis," Malcolm replied carefully. "I have followed the money trail to and from this account. Much of it has been siphoned off, and mostly during the past six months, although there has been more activity going back two or three years. Most of the money going out has been going to a fund in China which pays for young Chinese dissidents – that is, those who have spoken out against the Chinese government – to travel and live in the UK and USA. What they do when they get there is beyond my area of expertise, Home Secretary."

"Of course. Anything else?"

"Yes. Another large proportion of funds from that investment account have been trickling into another investment account – named 45c – and which has only Ms Peng as a password holder, which would indicate that Mr Bellchambers had no knowledge of its existence."

"He who ignores his money deserves to lose it," Meckering murmured.

Malcolm continued, determined to not be sidelined. "On the afternoon before she left London that fund was emptied of all but £5,000. Ms Peng had been stealing from her employer for upwards of two years, and the amount is in the hundreds of thousands of pounds. I suspect she also set up that young Lynch fellow."

"Mmm, really? I always suspected Lynch to be a bad egg."

"Yes, but the whole sabotaging of the trade talks seemed to be Ms Peng's idea. Simon Lynch may have gone along with it, but ….. she is the one who needs to be found. The two who have been arrested were not … the main players."

"Damn, and here was I planning a round of golf tomorrow." Malcolm heard the creak of wood as Meckering moved in his chair. The fellow was all of six foot five, and must have weighed upwards of twenty stone. "There's one other thing," Meckering's tone had become lighter, almost playful. "You wouldn't happen to know the whereabouts of Harry Pearce ... would you?"

"Harry? No. Why?"

"No reason. I just thought that if anyone were to know where he could be found it would be you."

"I've no idea," Malcolm said blandly, "although I know he's quite keen on Paris ….. the city in France."

"Yes, I know where Paris is. It's just that I'd suspected you and he to be …. well …. closer."

"No, Home Secretary. Not since he ….. disappeared, and he has been ….. decommissioned."

"Quite."

"Was there any reason …...?"

"That I was asking after Pearce?"

"Yes," Malcolm said, aware that he had to breathe soon or he'd pass out.

"None at all. I was just ….. curious."

"So ….. will there be anything else?"

"No …. no, I was just …. asking. Thank you for your ….. information, Malcolm. You must send your invoice directly to me."

And Malcolm hung up, not even sure whether Meckering's request for an invoice was serious. Not for the first time, Malcolm was relieved to be free of the security service. It chewed up and spat out all the very best people.


	21. Chapter 21

The following day Ruth and Harry looked at seven cottages all close to either Felixstowe or Ipswich. None of them fully fitted the image they had of the cottage they would buy, and they had talked about it for days on end.

"If we could take the kitchen from that last one and put it in the ground floor of the one north of Ipswich ..." Ruth began.

"And relocate it to the spot where Malcolm has his cottage, it would be …."

"Rather lovely," Ruth finished. "There's only one left within our price range," she added. It was getting on for four o'clock, and they would only have a window of thirty minutes in which to inspect the last house on their wish list, although whether this house was part of a wish list or a desperation list was something which had not been openly admitted.

"That's not the one which needs `a loving owner to bring it to its former glory'," Harry continued, "which in estate speak means, `the previous owners let this place run to ruin'."

"It's less than two miles north of Malcolm's cottage, and it's close to the beach … and it has a private jetty."

"No boat?"

"No."

"No picnic hamper thrown in?"

"Sadly no." Ruth hesitated, recognising the lightness in Harry's tone as he turned the car north. "I'm sure the asking price allows the new owners some leeway for …. purchases such as a boat …."

"And a cane picnic basket."

"Yes. I'm sure that is why the price is …. so …."

"Low?"

"Well …. I think the correct word is reasonable."

"It means the same thing, Ruth."

"But it sounds better than low. We equate low with cheap. Are we looking for a cheap house?"

Harry pursed his lips and dipped his head to the side in a way which Ruth loved. She watched as he thought of an answer and then changed his mind, glancing at her with his Grid expression. She reached across and grasped his arm and just as quickly removed her hand.

Harry turned the car off Ferry Road and along a narrow lane which took them towards the coast. Once they had driven over the brow of a rise which had hidden the beach from view they each knew they had found their home. The cottage itself nestled under the brow of the rise, surrounded by flowering shrubs and a few mature trees. A car – a shiny, low slung silver Lexus – was parked in the circular drive in front of the cottage, no doubt belonging to the estate agent who was hopefully patiently waiting for them to arrive.

Very slowly Harry drove his car towards the house, giving he and Ruth enough time to take in their surroundings. The beach was perhaps only a little less than two hundred yards from the house, a line of low bushes along a rock wall protecting them from a high tide. They could just see the end of the jetty, and it appeared to require some repair. The house itself was whitewashed, with a thatched roof, itself in need of repair. Surrounding the house was a picket fence, with a gate leading to the front door, all of which clearly needed a coat of paint or two, plus a nail here and there.

"Harry …. are you thinking what I am thinking?"

"If you're thinking that we have found our new home, then yes, Ruth, I am."

Seeing them arrive, the estate agent opened the front door and ushered them inside. "Mr and Mrs Valentine," she said, "I was wondering whether you'd got lost."

Inside the cottage it was clear no-one had lived in it for some time. Walls were in need of painting, and most of the house required redecorating. Upstairs there were three bedrooms, all with rather gaudy wallpaper on the walls, and equally colourful carpets on the floors. Despite the décor which assaulted their eyes there was a warm feeling about the house. It already felt like home. Several times Harry caught Ruth watching him, trying to determine his reaction. His expression gave away nothing, but she knew he was simply containing his delight, as well as his relief.

"The floors are all timber, and can be polished once you remove the floor coverings, all of which are at least forty years old."

Ruth barely heard what the estate agent was saying as they were shown through the house. Once they were back at the front door Harry turned to the agent and shook her hand. "We'll be in touch," he said, "probably within forty-eight hours. We need to discuss this in private and to review our finances."

As they drove away Ruth turned back for one last glimpse of the view over the sea. "It's rather lovely," she said quietly, "like it's on it's very own island."

"Do you love it as much as I do?" he asked, not taking his eyes from the lane ahead, winding and narrow.

"So what was all that malarkey about needing to review our finances?"

"You never tell them the truth, Ruth. We can't have estate agents going home rubbing their hands together at the prospect of another easy sale. They have to work for their money …. like everyone else."

Ruth smiled to herself and then reached with her hand and squeezed Harry's forearm. No doubt Harry would always be a spy. He couldn't help himself.

* * *

In London Malcolm Wynn-Jones was conducting a CCTV search. There were CCTV cameras at either end of the lane through which Max Bellchambers regularly walked from the tube station to his flat, but on the night he had been attacked, the cameras at the end of the lane through which he entered were not operating, while the cameras at the other end of the showed no unusual activity. Whoever had attacked him had planned it, and had planned it with a view to their presence remaining unseen. For the six hours leading up to him being attacked there was no footage from that one camera, although a camera outside a photo shop picked him up as he'd passed the shop on his way towards the lane. Try as he might, Malcolm was unable to find anything else – no more visuals, and there appeared to be no-one following Max. Whoever it was attacked him had either set themselves up well ahead of when he was due home, or else they lived in one of the derelict buildings which flanked the lane.

Malcolm could do no more. He hoped the police had more luck and more resources.

* * *

It was a little over ten days later that Harry received a phone call from Malcolm. They had just finished eating dinner and with the weather having been fine for almost a week, they were sitting on the terrace finishing off a bottle of wine. Harry drew his phone from his trousers pocket.

"Yes?" he said curtly, hoping that Malcolm would not be bringing them bad news of any kind.

"Harry," Malcolm said without preamble, "I have a suggestion to make. It's about where you are living."

"Go on."

"I heard via William Towers that the Bellchambers' are finding it difficult to fit back into normal life."

"That's …. understandable," Harry said, briefly remembering a time over a decade ago when he had been afraid that his own son would not make it past the age of twenty-one, and how shattering that had been, leaving him feeling powerless and ineffectual, both as a father and as a man.

"It's just that they ….. want to stay in the farm house …. where you are, and they would like to move in this weekend."

"And so we have to leave."

"Yes. I took the liberty of telling them I could provide you with alternate accommodation."

"In your cottage outside Felixstowe."

"Yes. I hope you ….. don't mind. It's awkward, I know, but these people are in a -"

"Malcolm, it's fine. Ruth and I have been talking about when it will be time for us to move back … closer to civilisation."

And then Harry told Malcolm about the house they were buying, and how it would be beneficial for them to be living closer to it once they took possession, which was to be in six weeks. When the call ended, Harry again pocketed his phone and turned towards Ruth, who had been listening in.

"We're moving?" she said.

"Mmm, and soon. We've been requested to leave by the weekend, because the owners need …."

"A safe place in which to grieve."

"Yes."

Two days later, with car packed, they headed south out of Norfolk. Ruth was relieved to be headed somewhere a little less cold, while Harry had mixed feelings about leaving the remote farm house behind.

"I enjoyed staying there," Harry said, as he turned the car on to the A140.

"My feelings about it are …. mixed," Ruth said, staring ahead through the windscreen. "As much as it started off as being like a honeymoon destination for us, I will forever associate that house with Max, and how his inquisitiveness, his desire to do the right thing ultimately led to his death."

Harry had nothing at all to add to that. Over and over they had discussed Max's visit and then his untimely and tragic death, and no amount of turning the events over and over, looking at them from every possible angle had made a jot of difference. Nothing they said and nothing they decided after the event could change the fact that he was dead, and that they were moving on to allow his parents a place to stay until they were again able to face the world. As far as they knew, Ross and Julie Bellchambers still had no idea that Max had visited them that day, and that his talking to `a couple of old spooks', followed by his passing on information to another spook may have played a part in him being targeted by some rather nasty people. Harry and Ruth could no longer afford the luxury of guilt. Guilt would only eat away at them, and no matter for how long they wallowed in their guilt it would never, _could_ never bring Max back.

Two hours and ten minutes after they had left the farm house just outside Cromer, Harry was able to again park his car beside the road, giving them a view of the small jetty and the roof of Malcolm's cottage. It was on this very spot, when Harry drove Ruth from Oxford the previous month that they had stopped and engaged in a rather delicious snog, their first ever proper snog. Harry lifted one eyebrow as he looked across at Ruth.

"What does that mean?" she said, knowing very well what he was suggesting.

"I was remembering, Ruth. How long ago was it that I drove you here from Oxford?"

"To me it feels like ten years …. and yet it's only been a couple of months."

"It feels like a long time. So much has happened." Harry reached out with his hand and cupped Ruth's cheek. "I love you," he said, "and I always will."

"You can't know that."

"I can, and I will. There is not a lot I can promise you, but I can promise you that."

Harry started the car and headed for home – their temporary home, but closer to their about-to-be home.

* * *

Later that night, after they'd unpacked and eaten a slap up meal of bacon and eggs, they fell into bed, tired and drained. Their time in hiding, whilst enjoyable, had also exhausted them.

"Did you check the doors and windows?" Ruth said, suddenly remembering they were closer to other dwellings.

"Of course," Harry murmured, shuffling closer to Ruth and sliding an arm around her shoulders. They each turned a little so that they almost faced one another in the dark.

"Harry …." Ruth asked after a few minutes of silence, "do you ….. miss seeing your children?"

Harry took almost as long before he answered. "I …. I'm so used to not seeing them that … I never think about it."

"Harry …. they're your children. You must miss them."

What followed was a rather long and awkward silence, during which Ruth could feel Harry's discomfort through the tension in the arm he had around her shoulders. She was sure he had moved just perceptibly so as to give himself a little distance from her and her questioning. Then he sighed.

"What is this about, Ruth?"

"About? I thought the question to be rather straightforward. Do you miss your children?"

"They're grown up, and I've not seen them on a regular basis for well over a decade."

"It's just that ….. were I to have had children, I'd want to see them all the time."

Harry pulled his arm from around her, and turned to that he lifted himself on to one elbow and gazed down at her. Even in the darkened room she could see his eyes boring into her. "Is that was this is about, Ruth? Is this about the children you never had?"

Without warning Ruth turned from him and got out of bed, flinging the duvet towards him so that the corner flicked his cheek. She then grabbed her dressing gown and slid her feet into her slippers and almost ran from the room. Harry flopped back on to his pillow and covered his eyes with his forearm. "You're an idiot, Pearce," he said aloud. The thing about words spoken in haste – without adequate prior thought - is that they can never be taken back.


	22. Chapter 22

Harry waited for almost ten minutes for Ruth to return, but she remained downstairs, and so as tired as he was, he left their bed and went looking for her. He found her sitting on the sofa under the large window in the living room – in the dark, looking out at the grey sea, patches of silver dancing from the reflected light from the moon giving a sense that the ocean was a living thing. "Ruth?" he said from the doorway, preparing to leave the room should she want to be alone.

"What took you so long?" she said, turning towards him.

Harry was surprised by the half smile on her lips. He'd expected her to be upset or angry, or even in tears. Hands stuffed into the pockets of his dressing gown, he slowly crossed the room and sat beside her. "I'm sorry," he began quietly. "What I said was …. insensitive."

"Yes, it was, but it was also true." Ruth reached out with her hand and placed it on his knee, where she rubbed her thumb around and around over the layers of clothing he wore. She then turned and looked through the window while she spoke. Harry understood that she was about to share with him something deeply personal, and for that she required the distance to be had by there being no direct eye contact …. at least for a while. "Back before I went into exile ….. in 2006, I thought about the possibility of having a child or two – with you – and then when I was with George I thought it might happen, but it didn't, and as time passed I realised that I had always imagined that were I to have children it would have to be with you. For a time Nico filled that void, but he wasn't my child."

"But Ruth ….." Seeing her turn and look at him sharply, Harry knew he was about to speak out of turn, so he held in his objection. Back then – before her exile and after she had returned home – she was hardly welcoming of his advances. From where he stood she had often been openly hostile towards him, so how could she say what she was saying?

"I know that I gave you next to no encouragement, but my desires were very private ones. At that time I had no intention of sharing them with you. I knew your difficulties with your own children, and I simply assumed you'd want no more children of your own …... with me or anyone else."

"Ruth ….. had I known that you wanted ….. that, the answer would always have been yes."

Ruth turned around and faced him. Their eyes had adjusted to the dark and so they could each see the expression on the other's face – gentle understanding on Ruth's face, and hurt and confusion on his. "It could never be, Harry. It would have been wrong of me to have even suggested it."

"Why, Ruth? I would have been happy to give you as many children as you'd wanted."

"Don't you see? To have done that would have bound you to me for life, and that wouldn't have been fair to you, or our child. You would have resented both of us, perhaps leading to you hating me." Suddenly Harry got up, crossing the room, his back to her. "What? What's wrong?"

He spun around, and Ruth could see the anger in his eyes. "Don't you _see_ , Ruth? You single-handedly made a decision on behalf of us both …. and the child we never had, but could have. You could have told me, but you didn't. Can't you see how _selfish_ that was?"

Ruth had been called selfish before, by other men she had loved – or thought she had loved. While she and George and Nico were cooped up in that flat in that ugly tower block in London George had accused her of `bull-headed selfishness'. She had wanted to argue with him, stating her case, but she'd known there to be an element of truth in what he'd said. Her selfishness, her reluctance to share with George her past, her truth, had led to that situation, and ultimately to George's death. Ruth quickly turned her eyes from Harry and once again stared through the window, seeing nothing, but feeling a deep turmoil churning within her.

It was when she felt hot tears running down her cheeks that she turned to see Harry striding across the room to her side. When he again sat beside her and reached out to put his arms around her, pulling her against him, she felt the wall of protection she'd erected all those years ago teeter, then crumble and collapse as she allowed the tears to freely flow. From the time soon after they'd been to dinner together she'd known that she wanted this man to be the father to her children. She'd known that to suggest such a thing to him would have bound him to her in a way which would have ultimately destroyed what they had …... or so she'd believed. Here was Harry saying that hadn't been the case. What a ridiculous decision she'd made back then. What a waste. What a tragedy. What an incredible loss.

She pushed her face into Harry's shoulder, letting the grief overtake her, while with one hand he rubbed her back, murmuring reassurances and words of love. It was several minutes before she was able to speak. She lifted her head and took a tissue from the pocket of her dressing gown. She wiped her eyes and then blew her nose, not yet able to look Harry in the eye. What must he think of her? She wouldn't blame him were he to think her feeble of mind. "I'm so sorry about all this," she said at last, flicking her eyes up to his to see him with a worried look. "I know I should have mentioned it ….. before this, but …..."

"Yes, you should have, but like Max's death, there's little point in rehashing it. I just wish you'd told me, Ruth. I had no idea …... none at all. I would have …. done anything for you …. back then as well as now …... anything at all, and …. giving you children …. well, it would have been a very welcome pleasure."

Ruth nodded, and then reached up with one hand and glided a finger down his cheek, feeling the raspiness of his beard growth beneath her fingertips. When she reached his mouth she ran her fingertip along his bottom lip, and he pursed his lips to kiss her finger. She reached up at the same time he bent to meet her lips with his own. The kiss was gentle and careful. This was not the time for allowing passion to overtake them. When they pulled away from one another Harry wrapped his arms around her shoulders and again drew her against him and held her. She was enough for him. Ruth was unique and complicated and very much a handful. To add a child to the mix may have been more than their relationship could sustain.

"I know it's too late for us to be having children," she began, "but I think that we can still have a …... meaningful life together."

Harry nodded. "And I suspect that had we had a child – perhaps after you came home from Cyprus – it would have been too …... difficult for us to maintain our relationship and a family as well as our roles at work. Had we done that then, I doubt we'd be here together now."

As much as Ruth wanted to object she knew he was right. "I never wanted to be a single parent, so I suppose my decision – as cruel, and yes, as selfish as it was – was for the best."

They kissed again, and despite a hint of passion in that kiss, they both knew it was late, and they were rather tired.

"It's time we turned in," Harry said, and she nodded.

As they climbed the stairs together, their fingers loosely linked, Harry mentioned that he'd been meaning for weeks to ring his daughter. "It's just that there have been so many distractions, and I could hardly tell her that I've been decommissioned, and that I'm in hiding with a woman I'd believed had died. She'd be booking me into one of those high dependency units."

"Tomorrow, Harry," Ruth said as they lay together under the duvet. "Tomorrow you should ring both your children. You're their father after all, and children of any age are terrible at maintaining regular contact with parents. It's up to you to make the first move."

"I know."

And so he did.

* * *

"Catherine's due back home in five weeks," Harry said as he stepped back into the kitchen, where Ruth was finishing her breakfast, having risen a half hour after him. "And Graham is in Miami with his girlfriend. I hadn't even known he had a girlfriend."

"That's no different than them not knowing about me. You can't know these things unless you maintain contact."

Harry sat opposite Ruth, where she'd placed a fresh cup of coffee in front of him. "They both now know about you," he said, carefully sipping the hot drink.

"And were they interested?"

"I think so. At least, Catherine was more than interested. I think she believed me to be …... well past that sort of thing." He looked up to see the smirk on Ruth's lips. "What?"

"If only she knew," she said. "Your little girl might be shocked by what we get up to ….. when the lights are out."

"Well …. she wanted details – not those kinds of details, mind you. I told her she can meet you when she comes home."

Suddenly Ruth felt nervous. _Talking_ about meeting Harry's children was easy. The prospect of meeting them for real was – for her – terrifying. She sat opposite Harry, her elbows on the edge of the table while she held her mug of coffee between both her hands, her gaze concentrated on the surface of her drink. She was unaware of the deep lines of worry wrinkling her forehead.

"It'll be alright, Ruth. They'll love you. I know it. Everyone who meets you loves you."

"Ros Myers didn't." As soon as the words were out, Ruth wished she'd thought before speaking.

"That's because she knew I loved you, and she believed you hadn't earned my love."

"She thought I was bad for you ….. an unnecessary distraction."

"Yes, well ... people always had to work hard to earn Ros' respect and regard."

Ruth decided that quite enough had been said about Ros. "When is your son due back home?"

"In two weeks. He'll be visiting his mother for a few days, and then he and Elise are spending a week with her parents in Salisbury. He wants to be back in London by the time Catherine arrives home." Harry shot Ruth a quick look. "I thought that …... by then, we might be able to visit London, if only for a few days." Ruth nodded, so he kept going. "We should be safe. Malcolm has told me that my house is no longer under surveillance, and they've even stopped watching your grave."

With the words, `your grave' Ruth's eyes darted up to meet his. "They've had surveillance on my _grave_? Why? Did they expect me to suddenly come back from the dead?"

"I don't think so, but they have expected me to visit your grave on a regular basis, which is what I did prior to my being decommissioned. Were they still after me – for whatever reason – the surveillance on your grave would be ongoing."

"So …. we're free?"

"As free as we can be at this stage. What do you think, Ruth? I need to check on my house anyway, and perhaps I should sell it. Once we're in our … own home, I can see little reason for keeping it on."

Ruth carefully placed her mug of coffee on the table in front of her. Then she folded her hands and looked up at Harry and smiled. "That sounds like a plan."


	23. Chapter 23

_**A/N: My thanks to readers and reviewers. This is the 3rd last chapter, so things are in wrap up mode.**_

* * *

Eight weeks later – early October 2014:

Had Harry not developed a bad case of the flu they would have travelled to London ten days earlier, and had he not insisted he was well enough to be out of bed he would no doubt have recovered in three to five days rather than the ten it had taken for his symptoms to abate. Ruth silently fumed while he sneezed, shivered, coughed, groaned and complained his way through his illness. In the end she sent him to bed and dared him to leave the bedroom.

"If I see you downstairs before morning, Harry, I'm calling a doctor," she threatened, after Harry had shivered his way through breakfast, picking at the bacon while leaving the egg.

He'd slunk upstairs, mumbling something like `bloody doctors …. treat me like a pin cushion', and when Ruth had later checked on him he'd been fast asleep, and had then slept for most of the day. From the moment he'd surrendered to the illness his recovery had begun.

"How come you haven't caught it from me, Ruth?" Harry had asked on the tenth day, the day they'd made the decision that he was well enough to travel to London.

"You must have noticed I avoided kissing you …. just in case."

"I had noticed, yes. We have some …. making up to do."

"All in good time." She looked up, smiling at him across the table. She noticed his eyes were clear and his nose was no longer red. "Just don't get sick again."

"Why? Were you worried about me?"

"You were hardly on death's door, Harry. It's just …. I didn't wish to catch ….. what you had."

"So …... normal …. activity will …." Having begun the sentence, he was not sure how best to finish it.

"Yes, it will. Soon. Very soon."

They spent the remainder of the morning cleaning the cottage, and then Ruth took the car into Felixstowe to stock up on the essentials while Harry fielded calls from building contractors. Once Ruth came home and unpacked the groceries they ate a quick lunch before they visited their own recently purchased cottage to check on progress. Of course progress on the renovations was slow, but with winter bearing down on them they did not have high expectations of moving in before Christmas.

"Everyone wants their jobs finished by mid December," Steve, the contractor said, "and it's sometimes not possible. Since most of the work on this place is interior, we can move quickly, but you'll need to hire a thatcher. The roof leaks in the back corner ….. over the third bedroom."

Of course it did. Ruth wandered around outside the house while Harry negotiated with Steve. He was good at that, so long as he didn't lose his temper.

They spoke little on the way back to Malcolm's cottage. Ruth could see Harry was nursing irritation.

"It'll be alright," she said quietly, as they turned down the lane to their temporary home. "It will be ready when it's ready."

Harry pulled the car into the small carport beside the cottage, and then turned towards her, his eyes flinty. "And what if that's a year from now? What then?"

"We still have somewhere to live until such time as our home is ready. It's not something over which we have a lot of control."

Harry sat back in his seat and breathed out heavily. She was right, of course. He was having difficulty adjusting to life away from the pressure cooker which was MI5. He loved being with Ruth, living with her, loving her, and even more, he loved the wise and gentle way she loved him. Despite his many flaws, Ruth adored him. It's just that he was still finding it difficult to accept that without his direct intervention life just ebbed and flowed and no-one died ….. well, not very many. It was not in his nature to simply _be_ when he had always had to ensure that the right thing happened at the right time. He sighed again, hoping he hadn't blown his chances in the bedroom that evening. He shook his head just a little, embarrassed by the powerful drives of his body, drives which had been rekindled once he had again found Ruth. Then he felt Ruth's fingers on his arm, so he turned to look into her eyes.

"It's alright, Harry. I know it's hard for you to sit back and allow others to do …. everything."

He smiled at her then. Of course Ruth knew how he felt. She was aware of his struggle to trust others to do what had to be done. He reached out to her with both arms and slowly she leaned against him.

"I've really missed you while you were sick."

"You know that kissing …. and everything which follows ….. which we haven't been doing?" Ruth nodded her reply. "How about now? I don't think I can wait until bedtime."

"Me neither," she said, reaching up to cup his face between her hands before she kissed him.

* * *

Almost an hour later Ruth lay naked under a single sheet, Harry's arm loosely encircling her while he snored lightly in a post coital slumber, his face turned towards her, his eyelashes resting on his cheeks. She slid one foot up and down Harry's leg, but he slept on. Their coming together had been powerful, explosive even. There was something to be said for enforced celibacy, that is if two weeks without sex could be termed celibacy.

It was as uncomfortable for Ruth to switch off her mind as it was for Harry to allow others to take care of the details, and so she found her mind wandering to the still unsolved issue of Max Bellchambers' death. She knew that Malcolm had been engaging in some digital trickery in an attempt to find Meilin Peng, but so far had had no luck, and he'd been vague whenever she'd asked him how his search was progressing.

"I'm still on it, Ruth," he'd told her on the phone only a week earlier. "Interpol seem to regard her as just another potential terrorist, but without direct proof of her involvement, they view her as a small time criminal."

"But -"

"When something happens – if it happens – I'll let you know."

* * *

While Ruth and Harry were lying in bed that afternoon, with Harry sleeping and Ruth thinking too much and for too long, it was after ten in the evening in Beijing, and Meilin Peng had just opened an email from Tom Dryden, the boyfriend she'd been with for four years from her final year in university. She'd left him to move in with Simon, but she and Tom had remained friendly for another year, and had then gradually drifted apart. Just as she clicked on the email her phone rang, so she got up from her chair to look for her phone.

By the time she sat back at her laptop the email was open and so she read the few lines Tom had written: _Hi there. I've been thinking about you, and was hoping we could catch up. Fancy a drink some time? You can reach me on this number._ What followed was a British phone number in hyperlink. Without thinking she pressed the number. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. It was then that Meilin realised she'd just been complicit in her laptop being hacked. She quickly shut down her machine, but she knew it was already too late. Whoever had sent her the email would have been able to access her hard drive from the moment she'd clicked on Tom's name. They had had almost fifteen minutes in which to do it. _Shit!_ When she clicked on the phone number her files would have been sent. She'd only recently read about that very software, and had blithely allowed the theft to happen to her. What should she do now? She couldn't go back to the UK, and her high rise flat in Beijing, whilst completely anonymous in this city, would very soon be under surveillance. She sat back in her chair and sighed. She was sick of running, sick of hiding. She couldn't afford to get close to anyone, so she had no friends and no-one to talk to, nowhere else to hide. She just wanted it all to end.

* * *

Three days later Harry and Ruth drove into the driveway of Harry's house in London.

"How long since you've been here?" Ruth asked as they entered the house, the air inside musty from the doors and windows being closed.

"A little over four months," he said, heading towards the kitchen and the back door. "Everything appears untouched," he added, as Ruth entered the kitchen.

"You expected burglars?"

"Perhaps. Special burglars from Internal Affairs. There's still a layer of dust on everything, so no-one's been in here."

"You need to open a few windows," she suggested.

"It's about to rain," he said, looking through the window over the kitchen sink at the heavy grey sky above the trees in his back yard.

"Just for a half hour or so, Harry. It's stuffy in here."

Later, after they'd spread their things around, giving the house a lived-in feeling, they ordered an Indian takeaway meal, eating it on the sofa, the TV switched on with the sound muted.

"This is nice," Harry observed, refilling their wine glasses with a cheap light red from Tesco. "I always imagined a scene like this …... you here with me, the TV on but muted, eating takeaway, sipping wine, the bedroom beckoning, but neither of us brave enough to suggest we ….. go there."

"How long ago are we talking about, Harry?"

"Back before the Gavrik's came to London."

"So ….. once they were here, you went off the idea."

Harry pulled away from her quickly, turning to look her in the eye. "Of course not. It's just that things got a little ….. messy after I told you that Sasha was my son. Things between us never fully recovered after that."

"It wasn't something I …... welcomed hearing."

Harry sat back, not wanting to be thinking about that time in their history. It was a dark time for him, and it had only became darker. He decided to not try to slide his arm around Ruth again. It was clear to him that the memory of that time had hurt her, damaged them. He was a fool to have allowed himself to slide into a reminiscing mood. He sighed heavily, wishing he could turn the clock back around five minutes.

"It's alright, Harry. I _was_ hurt back then, but we've a …. new and recent history which I wouldn't change for ….."

"All the tea in China?"

"First you mention the Russians, and now it's China."

Harry turned to watch Ruth, concerned that she may be irritated with him. She felt his eyes on her and looked up at him, a small smile forming on her lips. _What the hell_! He leaned across and kissed those lips, firstly softly, and then with the beginnings of passion.

"Is that a hint?" she asked.

"If we don't try out the bed upstairs rather soon …..." and his words were lost in another kiss.

"Perhaps we should turn in now," Ruth suggested, and he could tell she was trying hard to keep a straight face.

* * *

"Harry, why is this bed so ... enormous?" she called out once she had slid under the covers. Harry was still in the en suite, having just completed his nightly ritual of peeing and then showering, and all he'd heard was `why is' and `enormous'.

"I thought you already knew, Ruth," he said, entering the bedroom dressed in only his dressing gown. He allowed it to drop to the floor before he – deliberately and slowly – pulled on a pair of track pants and a t-shirt before he slid under the covers.

"But you've been single for years, and you have this _huge_ bed. Why?"

"Oh," he said, "you were talking about my bed."

"What did you -?" and she stopped speaking when she felt Harry's body against hers under the duvet, his hands reaching out for her, and connecting with her hips, which he pulled flush with his own. His partial erection nestled against her belly. "Harry ….. you're so ….. predictable!" But she didn't pull away. She gave in to his kiss, and rather enjoyed his wandering hands as they found their way under her clothing. "I still need to know why a single man who is hardly ever home has a need for such a big bed."

Harry pulled away a little so that he could look into Ruth's eyes. "Buying this bed was an act of hope, Ruth. I bought it just before the hotel bombing in which Ros and Andrew Lawrence were killed. Back then I had …. hopes for us."

"By us you mean you and me."

"Of course. I thought if we began with a new bed, then ….. what could go wrong?"

What indeed. Suddenly Ruth got it - a giant sized message surrounded by flashing neon lighting. She suddenly realised how much Harry had secretly invested in the idea of `them'. He'd asked her to marry him, and then had backed down when she had turned him down. But he had never given up on her. Even after her apparent death he had still loved her ….. the memory of her, the memory of what they could have been, should have been. Ruth rolled away from him and onto her back, allowing a deep sigh to leave her. "Oh, Harry," she said softly, her words weaving their way through the air around them, "I am so _so_ sorry. I let you down over and over, and yet I never quite allowed myself to let you go, to leave you free to move on."

"It was me who wouldn't let go. I couldn't let you go. Even after I believed you'd died I held on to the idea of us. I know it was unhealthy, but I didn't know what else to do. Were I to have let you go, what did I have left? I couldn't ….. bear the thought that we almost had what I'd wanted for …. years. I bought this bed for us …. to share … so we could sleep together, make love, wake up together. So …. you can see how important tonight is … for me … for us."

Ruth had no idea what to say to that. Harry's honesty had moved her. During the few months they had lived together he had gradually begun to lower his walls, opening himself to her in a way she'd been sure he never would. He had trusted her, giving her the gift of his heart, so that the very least she could do was to grant him hers in return. "Harry," she said, turning to face him.

She didn't know how to say what it was she needed to say, so she leaned towards him and wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing his face to her. The kiss was different – not sexual, not a goodbye kiss, not hard and aggressive. The kiss was tender and respectful, loving and knowing, and it lasted for a long time. It was a coming together of a different kind, and for them on that night, their first night together in the bed Harry had bought for them so many years earlier, it was enough. Once the kiss ended they settled down beside one another, Ruth's cheek resting against his shoulder, and they slept.


	24. Chapter 24

Two days later – October 2014:

Meilin Peng waited until dusk. In Beijing dusk was the time when the smog was thickest, choking anyone brave enough to be walking outside. The air was cold and thick with fog and the fumes from a multitude of vehicles. The smog was the price of capitalism, and Meilin was happy to pay the price, having enjoyed the benefits of capitalism. The noise from traffic never fully abated, but between six and seven in the evening it was a continual loud thrum, an apocalyptic swarming of giant mosquitoes. Residents of the city were used to it, but Meilin had never quite adapted. She preferred London, but would never go back there, could never go back. Her carelessness and greed – which she termed creative opportunism – meant that the UK would forever be out of bounds to her.

She left her apartment block by a lane which ran behind the building, and through which those with cars accessed the property. She quickly joined the throng on the streets, darting out of the way of cyclists and pedestrians, all with their heads down. She was confident her newly dyed blond hair and her attire – denim jeans and jacket, both of which she'd bought in London, over which she wore a long black woollen coat – would adequately hide her identity. She carried a black fabric backpack in which she'd stuffed everything she needed to be able to leave Beijing. She'd left her laptop in her flat. Her fake ID was her last resort. She'd only had three to begin with and she'd already used two in order to make it to Beijing. To leave she'd needed her third. Her deliverance from this city was not guaranteed. If she made it out she might not survive, but if she was caught leaving she'd be sent back to London, and she'd rather die than have that happen. Her mother's shame alone had the power to destroy her.

* * *

"Perhaps I should go for a long walk while …..."

"Why, Ruth?"

"Well, I imagine your son and daughter are not visiting to see me."

"Actually they are. Were it just me, they'd find some excuse to not turn up. It's you they're coming to meet, Ruth, and their curiosity will be too strong. They can see me any time."

Together they were tidying the downstairs of Harry's house. Mostly they were picking up shoes and bits of clothing, dirty mugs and plates from the previous evening, and taking them back to the kitchen or upstairs to their bedroom. It had been Ruth's idea. Harry believed his children would never notice a few bits and pieces lying around. "We need to make a good impression," she'd said as she scuttled from one room to another, picking up objects and then replacing them.

Catherine and Graham arrived together, each without their partners. "We thought just the two of us is enough for now," Catherine explained, handing Harry a bottle of white wine which she'd grabbed on her way out of her flat. She gave Harry a quick hug, and then stepped aside to allow her brother to greet their father. The two men stood warily watching each other, neither knowing how best this greeting should be conducted.

"Oh, fuck this," Graham said at last, pulling Harry in for a (very) quick hug and a back slap. "Where's Ruth?" he added, once he and his father had dispensed with the greeting, clearly awkward for them both. "I'm only here to meet the woman who is prepared to put up with you."

Hearing Graham's question, Ruth stepped into the hallway from the living room, and three sets of eyes turned her way. She felt a smile form on her lips as she looked from Catherine to Graham and then Harry. Catherine looked much as she had years earlier when Ruth had seen images of her. Catherine Townsend had grown into a beautiful woman, her hair now shoulder length, her face a little thinner. It was Graham who surprised her. For someone who had been through so much and had caused his parents so much pain and grief, Graham Pearce was nothing at all as she'd expected. Harry had only been able to show her pictures of him from ten years earlier, and the man Harry's son had become was completely different. For a start, it was clear he was Harry's son, and he perhaps closely resembled Harry as a much younger man. Graham was slightly built with light brown hair closely cropped. Other than his eyes being grey in colour, he held her eyes with the same intensity as Harry, but it was Graham's sensual mouth which caused Ruth to take a breath and pull her gaze away. As he and Ruth watched one another Graham was the first to relax, and also the first to step towards her.

"It's so good to meet you," he said, hand outstretched for Ruth to shake.

"And you," she replied, grasping his hand in both of hers.

"Dad hadn't told us you were so ….. young," Catherine chipped in, stepping to her brother's side to also shake Ruth's hand.

"Is … is that a problem?" Ruth asked, silently berating Harry for not adding that small detail to his description of her.

"God, no," Catherine added, although her expression was wary as she assessed Ruth closely.

"I still can't figure what you see in my father," Graham said, standing closest to Ruth, clearly taken in by her.

"If she told you that she'd then have to kill you," Harry said, lifting one eyebrow to Ruth as he shunted them all along the hallway to the kitchen. "Time for a drink."

"Just tea for me," said Graham.

"And me," added Catherine.

"Tea for me also," said Ruth.

"Will no-one join me?" Harry turned to look from one to the other, the three people he most loved in the world. Three heads shook. "But the sun's well past the yardarm."

"I'll make the tea," Ruth offered. "You three can go into the living room."

"I'll give you a hand," Catherine said, pushing her brother and father in the direction of the door.

"You're not at all as I expected," Catherine said casually as she spooned tea leaves into the tea pot while Ruth filled the kettle and then arranged four cups on a tray.

Ruth knew better than to react to the words which were unsaid. "And you expected …...?"

"Someone older …... more …... I don't know …."

"Like your mother?"

" _God_ ….. _no_! Even Dad wouldn't make that same mistake again." Catherine waited while the electric kettle boiled. "Dad already told me you'd worked together for years. I think I expected someone dressed in leather …... long blond hair …... stiletto heels ….. bright red lipstick ... you know."

"Spies don't dress like in the movies, Catherine. We're just regular, normal people who do a job which is anything but normal."

"I already knew that. It's just that Dad talked about you like you're some kind of super human. I almost expected you to be seven feet tall. My brother and I talked about it on the way here. His expectation of you was much much closer to the truth."

"And that was?"

"He said …... you were probably sensible and quiet and remarkable …. and able to provide a calm balance to Dad's extremes."

"Harry would say that was true." Ruth placed the tray on the table and turned to face Harry's daughter. "I am serious about him, you know. I've loved him for ….. many years. We already know one another very well, and we're …. fully committed to each other."

"You're both wearing rings. Is that official?"

"As our legends it's official, but as Ruth and Harry ….. no, we're not married. I don't think we need to be."

With them each relaxed Ruth changed the subject to Catherine's work. She felt uncomfortable talking to his daughter about her relationship with Harry. _They_ were private, and so not open to scrutiny. Ruth would have liked it were she and Harry free to go somewhere a long way from prying eyes and inquisitive minds, somewhere they could be themselves, somewhere they had no need for using legends, somewhere the world would pass by their front door leaving them alone.

Ten minutes had passed and with no sign of Ruth or Catherine, Graham and Harry returned to the kitchen. "Told you they'd hit it off," Graham said as he and Harry took seats beside one another at the kitchen table. "So," Graham continued as he milked and sugared his tea, while Ruth fussed over the spills of water and milk on the counter top. "What's next?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, all the while watching Ruth, hoping to gain her eye contact.

"Are you back here for good or what?"

Harry launched into a precised account of their immediate plans, all the while checking on Ruth, who eventually sat beside Catherine, her discomfort at the situation having burned off while she'd been wiping the counter top.

"So you're not going back to work, Dad?" This from Catherine.

"Not if I can help it."

"We'll see," Ruth said quietly. "If the nation is put under attack, if we have another 7/7, I doubt Harry will be able to stay away."

"Aren't there any other spies in London?" asked Graham. "Are you the only one who can – y'know – _save_ us?"

Ruth felt the tension in Catherine as the sarcasm in Graham's tone sat in the air between them.

"I hope," Harry replied quietly, determined to not react to the implied dig, "that if such a thing were to occur I would be wise enough to allow those younger and fitter than me to take charge. At the moment, though, those in charge are perhaps …. not the best people for the job."

"And you are?"

"Your father was a very, very good spy, Graham," Ruth said, seeing Harry's discomfort. "He made too many sacrifices. Most others would not have done that."

"So …. he put the needs of the nation before family."

"Yes …. he did. Only the very best at their job do that …. perhaps unwisely."

"And I'm not about to do that again. I know my limits."

A silence fell. Graham's little dig had dampened the spirit of the afternoon, and Ruth and Catherine – each separately – felt the need to put things right. Catherine was the first to act.

"Graham, you can help me tidy and wash these things while Dad and Ruth go into the living room. I'm sure you're ready for that stiff drink by now," she added, looking directly at Harry, who immediately took the hint.

* * *

"What was all that? Are you a moron? Do you know how hard it is for him to admit to his failures? Graham, in the dictionary, next to the word `twonk', they have your image as an illustration of meaning."

"Go easy. I was only having a dig."

"Well, it was infantile …. and unnecessary. You just succeeded in putting back your emerging relationship with him by several months. You hurt him."

"I meant to hurt him."

"Don't you think he's already been hurt enough? He was kicked out of his marriage and barely saw us when we were growing up."

"Only because he didn't want to." Graham already felt contrite, but also enjoyed the fight.

"He wanted to. Mum made sure his access to us was limited. She was hurt also, and she took it out on him. It was she who blamed him for the marriage ending."

"It was his fault they divorced."

"It's never just one person's fault. It takes two to make it and two to break it. On top of all that …. he lost Ruth ….. twice."

"That's nothing to do with us."

"Anything which affects him trickles down to us. Like it or not he's our father, so grow up. Now."

"How come you're now the old man's champion?" Graham's lips were pursed in the same sulky expression Harry often used.

"Because he's the only father I have. He's the only father you have. We have to make the most of it, and the best way to begin is to see his life through his eyes."

In the living room, Ruth sat next to Harry on the sofa, her hand resting lightly on his thigh. He'd very quietly poured himself a whisky, had offered one to Ruth, who had nodded, then indicated with her fingers that she'd wanted a very small one. They had spoken very little. They heard the voices in the kitchen but had been unable to determine what was being said. By the tone of Catherine's voice, Graham was getting a dressing down.

"I wasn't the cause of that, was I, Ruth?" he said at last.

"As I saw and heard it, your son enjoys hurting you. I suspect he wants to act differently around you but doesn't know how."

"It's been easy having a relationship with him on the phone. Face to face doesn't always work well with us."

"He's an adult, Harry. It's about time he tried harder."

Nothing more was said until Catherine and Graham joined them in the living room. In her hands Catherine had the bottle of wine she'd brought. "My brother has something to say," she said, placing the wine bottle on the coffee table.

Graham stood a little behind her, his hands busily moving next to his thighs, in a similar way Harry had when he was nervous or angry. "I'm sorry for what I said. I was being … deliberately confrontational. I'll try to be more ….." Graham looked over at Catherine, whose eyes had widened in an effort to get him to say what he'd promised to say. "I'll be more grown up in future. And I'm sorry, Ruth, that you have had to witness my ….."

"Being a child," Catherine finished. "Now. I'd quite like a glass of wine. Ruth …. will you join me?"

"I'd love to," Ruth replied with a smile, placing her whisky glass, barely touched, on the coffee table. Beside her, she felt Harry's body relax.

"Are you free tomorrow, Graham?" Harry asked.

"Tomorrow? It's Monday, isn't it? I finish work at twelve."

"I'd like you to help me choose a car. Ruth and I need to trade in the BMW."

"Sure. Why not," Graham replied, "but shouldn't Ruth be accompanying you?"

"I know next to nothing about cars, Graham," she said. "You can make sure your dad doesn't buy a lemon."

The two women looked across the space between them and smiled. So far, so good.

* * *

Oliver Mace sat at his desk in Thames House checking his internal memos, and then any which had arrived from the office of the Home Secretary. It was late on Sunday afternoon, but the wheels of government turned just as quickly on Sundays as of a week day. The official word from Richard Meckering was to forget about Harry Pearce. Surveillance on Pearce's house had been lifted weeks earlier, along with the surveillance on the grave of Ruth Evershed. Of course she was alive, but the official story was that she was living in Hong Kong, and appeared unlikely to leave. Oliver was not so sure about any of the `official' stories. He was also not so sure that Harry Pearce had simply faded away, never to be seen again. Were he Pearce and were he as taken with the mousy Ms Evershed as Pearce seemed to have been, then he'd have decamped to Hong Kong months ago. Oliver did not like unfinished business, and Harry Pearce and Ruth Evershed were unfinished business.

Added to the shame of Harry Pearce's disappearance was the inability of MI6 operatives in China and Hong Kong to locate Meilin Peng. At least there were two people in gaol doing time for the attempted poisoning of the Chinese delegation, so his shame was only partial, and he could live with that. Oliver knew that Simon Lynch and the Chinese chef were small fry, and as such he was not well pleased, but better to have two crooks in gaol than no crooks at all.

Then there was the continuing absence of Will Holloway. Oliver thought young Holloway to be a renegade …. a rebel ….. a spy with a conscience, a bit like Harry Pearce. As Oliver saw it, he was happy for Will to remain AWOL. The lad would never do as he was told. Maybe he and Harry had found one another. Perhaps they were living together in a commune just outside Glastonbury, eating tofu and singing _Kumbaya_ around the camp fire. When being truthful with himself, Oliver couldn't give a tinker's toss about any of it. He was where he needed to be – behind the largest desk on the top floor in Thames House - and that was all that mattered.

* * *

 _ **A/N : Thank you to LouBelle04 for using the word twonk in a recent review. It is not a word in common usage in my part of the globe ... but I like it.  
**_


	25. Chapter 25

_**A/N**_ _ **: This is the final chapter. Thank you to all who have read this fic, and especially to the kind reviewers.**_

 _ **I have quite deliberately not rounded off the plot with a bow neatly tied. I rather like the idea that not everything is known, and not everyone got their comeuppance – at least, not within the time frame of the story.**_

* * *

Next day – Monday afternoon:

"Harry …. do you mind if I don't go with you? It's just that you and Graham need some time alone together and I don't especially wish to come between you."

"Whatever you want, Ruth. What are you planning to do?"

So she told him. She'd been worried about his reaction, but he understood and once the taxi arrived he kissed her goodbye at the door.

"Just watch out for tails," Harry warned as she stepped through the front door. The look she threw at him told him what she thought of him playing the worried husband.

"Don't come back with a car which is orange," she said. "I refuse to be seen in an orange car."

 _As if I would_ , he thought, closing the door behind her.

The taxi dropped her off at the cemetery gates, where she pulled her coat tightly around her as she headed towards the electronic grave location guide which nestled under the eaves of the main building. She keyed in the name and initial and immediately the position of the grave came up on the electronic display of the cemetery. She looked around, orienting herself and then headed off along the pathway.

The grave was quite a distance from the main building, so it took her well over five minutes to reach it. The grass around where the body had been interred had still not grown to match the surrounding grass. She'd brought a small bunch of yellow flowers, because to her mind he had been special – a golden child cut down too soon. She placed the flowers at the foot of the tombstone on which Max's name and dates of birth and death were recorded. Kneeling on the grass, she traced a finger over the etched letters of his name, a well of emotion sitting just beneath the surface.

Had someone asked her Ruth would have been loathe to say why it was she had been so moved by Max's short life, and then by his senseless death. Squatting beside his grave the truth hit her like a slap. For that brief time he had visited her and Harry while they were hiding away near Cromer, Ruth could imagine that he was their son, visiting them while he had a couple of days off from work. Ruth was shocked to admit to herself that she had fancied this young man may have been like the child that she and Harry might have had, had she been braver and more honest about them sooner. He'd been everything she could want in a child – brave, decent, honest and open – although knowing she and Harry, a child of theirs was more likely to have been wary, insecure, moody and neurotic. Ruth swallowed her tears, coughing to clear her throat. It was silly really. She and Harry were too damaged, too self absorbed to be parents. For them, and any child who may have been waiting in the wings to be born to them, things had turned out the way they should. It was better they each had the other, with no child to divide them, as children sometimes could.

Ruth had only just stood up, wondering how long she should stay there, thinking about this young man whom she had known only very briefly, when she sensed the approach of another person. Turning towards the sound of footsteps, she saw a young man slowly approaching. Perhaps a little older than Max, although shorter in stature, this young man had dark eyes and longish, thick dark curly hair. He smiled at her, but she was not ready to smile back at him, not until he had stated his business.

"Ruth?" the young man said, and noticing her expression, he slowed his pace, strolling towards her. "My name is Will …... Will Holloway."

"Oh, of course. Will. How did you know my name?"

Will stepped closer to Ruth, stopping short with still a yard or two between them. "Malcolm Wynn-Jones told me you'd be here."

"Malcolm? I've said nothing to Malcolm."

"Look over there," Will said, and beneath a spreading beech tree, hoping to be hidden, stood Malcolm. The older man lifted his hand in a greeting and Ruth waved back.

"Don't tell me Harry rang him."

"No. He rang Harry only minutes after you'd left home, and since I was visiting Malcolm, he suggested we both ….." Will's words ran out, and so he stuffed both hands into the pockets of his jeans and looked slightly bashful.

Ruth nodded, suddenly understanding his need to be there. One degree of separation. Thinking quickly, Ruth pulled her phone from the pocket of her coat. "Would you like to speak to Harry?" she asked. Will nodded and smiled, so she rang Harry's mobile. "Harry? Are you free to talk? I have someone here who wishes to speak to you."

"You're not communicating with the dead are you, Ruth?"

"No. It's Will Holloway. He's here, at Max's grave."

"Graham and I were just about to leave, but ..." Ruth listened as Harry covered his phone with his hand and spoke to Graham. Ten seconds later he was back on the line. "Put him on," he said, so Ruth handed her phone to Will.

To give him some privacy she wandered across the grass to the beech tree where Malcolm still stood. "It's good to see you," she said, smiling.

"And you. I hope you don't mind the cloak and dagger. Will was keen to meet you. After all, he saw how bereft Harry had been when he'd believed you were gone. I suspect Will was curious."

"Have you any idea what they're talking about?" Ruth asked, looking back to Max's grave, in front of which Will paced up and down, speaking animatedly into the phone.

"None at all. You know spooks, Ruth. It's probably something about an old asset, or maybe they're just catching up. Will keeps his cards close to his chest, but I think he views Harry as a father figure." Ruth nodded, glancing back at Will, who had just let out a quick burst of laughter.

"Harry's son would find that …. amusing," she said, almost to herself.

"I'm glad you're here, Ruth. I have a program running day and night in an effort to find Meilin Peng. I keyed in her activities in London – especially her financial activities – and I have it set to pick up anything similar in the far east."

"Any bites?"

"Thousands. It seems graft and corruption are common throughout the world."

"Who knew?" Ruth replied softly, smiling. "She'll turn up again somewhere. To be honest, I don't much care. Finding her and putting her away won't bring back Max."

"Funny …." Malcolm mused. "Harry used to say a similar thing about Sasha Gavrik. Tom Quinn offered to ensure the boy met with a nasty accident, but Harry wasn't interested. He said he'd rather Sasha lived and suffered with knowing what he'd done, and that killing him wouldn't bring you back."

"Being here has reminded me of something else," Ruth said, almost to herself. "Max told Harry and me about copies of memos and notes from a JIC meeting he had locked in a safe in his flat. The flat belongs to his parents, and so I'm wondering if ..."

"They can be accessed?" Malcolm lifted his eyebrows as he spoke.

"Yes. Something like that."

"Leave it with me. I can get them. They might come in useful some time in the future."

"How will you get them?"

Malcolm tapped his nose. "I thought I might pretend to be a tradesman that Max had called."

"And you can crack a safe?"

"Of course. Can't everyone?"

Ruth shook her head and smiled. She wasn't sure Malcolm was serious, but she hoped he was.

They stood in silence for a minute or so, both watching Will listening to what Harry had to say. "Harry's selling his house," Ruth said at last, not looking at Malcolm. "It will mean having no base in London."

"You can always stay with me. With Mother in the nursing home, I have two large bedrooms spare. You're welcome any time."

"Thank you, Malcolm. That's very kind of you. I'll speak to Harry. Currently he's putting his life in London behind him. Our immediate future is to be spent on the Suffolk coast."

"Do you know when you'll be able to move in?"

"No idea. Hopefully before next summer. Things are moving rather slowly, I'm afraid."

Malcolm stood up straighter and took a step closer to Ruth. "I needed to speak to you ….. away from Harry."

Ruth drew her eyebrows together. That was such a strange thing for Malcolm to be saying.

"I have a …. contact in the industry …... our industry ….. who has a website, and is looking for someone to write articles about organising and interpreting data. It's a subscriber site, so he can pay his writers. I could probably do something for him, but I think you'd be better. My writing style is a trifle … dry, or so I've been told. There's quite a lot of scope for series' of articles – one on different kinds of data, another on the language of data. I think he also wishes to address the cultural differences to be found in the way data is organised. The list is almost endless. He may also have some translating for you. The money won't be a lot initially, but if membership grows, then so will his ability to pay you. I've already spoken to him, telling him about you, and he was interested. He doesn't want to be the one writing articles. He'd rather pay the experts."

"He's legit?"

"Alistair Growden. You've heard of him?"

Ruth gave a light laugh. "Yes, I've heard of him. He was `let go' from GCHQ just before I joined MI5. He was far too smart for that job."

"So ….. you'll meet him?"

Ruth hesitated. She'd need to speak to Harry, of course, but then …... he'd only suggest she do what makes her happy, and he'll be happy with that. "Yes. I'll speak to him. Where is he?"

"He lives in a boat on the Thames."

Again Ruth laughed lightly. "How typical."

Hearing footsteps approaching, both Ruth and Malcolm turned to see Will crossing the grass towards them, his conversation with Harry over. "You must be good for him, Ruth," he said, handing her phone back to her. "I've never heard him so happy. He was always such a grump."

Ruth took the phone and thanked him. "I really need to get back home," she said. "As soon as he has the house ready for sale Harry wants to head home. We have so much to do."

Malcolm offered to drive her home, but she declined the offer, preferring to take the tube. She kissed Malcolm's cheek and shook Will's hand before heading across the grass towards the entrance.

Will watched as Ruth disappeared from sight. "She reminds me of one of those shape shifters the Native Americans speak of. Back from the dead, then she appears at this boy's grave. Are you sure she's real, Malcolm?"

"Oh, she's real alright."

* * *

Ruth took her time travelling home, stopping off on the way to check some shops which sold soft furnishings. She knew online browsing was easier, but she liked to touch fabrics, running the tips of her fingers across them, taking in the texture. By the time she arrived home there was a smart silver-grey car in the driveway.

"What do you think, Ruth?" Harry said as she entered the house and hung her coat on a hook in the hallway.

"Of what?"

"The car. It's a 2012 MG 6. I thought of you when I bought it."

Ruth reached up and took his face in her hands before kissing him. "No you didn't. The car looks like something you might drive. I'd buy one of those little Suzuki cars."

"I can buy you one of them, too."

"No, Harry. I don't need a car. I have you, and you have a car. That's quite enough cars."

"Sure?"

"Sure."

"Let's have a pot of tea."

Ruth grasped his hand to stop him, and as he turned towards her she put her arms around his neck and drew him into a hug. They stood like that for a long moment, arms around the other in the front hallway of Harry's house.

"What was that for?" he asked once they'd drawn apart.

"I'm not sure," she said. "I just wanted you to know how much I ..."

"Love me?"

Ruth nodded, words having failed her.

"I know you do. Now, how about that tea?"

 _Fin_


End file.
